


Five Ways John Winchester Didn't Get Laid

by starhawk2005



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Het, Smut, Vampire!John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-01
Updated: 2012-08-02
Packaged: 2017-11-11 05:35:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 26,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/475084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starhawk2005/pseuds/starhawk2005
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The title kind of says it all!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: God, do I wish I owned John. *pouts*  
> Betas: Heartfelt thanks and scantily-clad John Winchesters to medicinal_mirth for her kind suggestions. And also to phantomas, just because she could use a little naked!John (can’t we all?) these days.

The old saying has it right. There’s no fool like an _old_ fool.

Foolish mistake number one – blowing up at his boys after they let the Demon get away. They could’ve shot him in the heart, killed both him _and_ his nightmare. But they hadn’t. And while he understands it now, he didn’t then. Instead, he’d stored up his anger. Waited until all three of them were on their feet, out of the hospital.

Then he’d torn into them.

He’d left soon afterwards. He has a Demon to kill, and he doesn’t care what it takes. He’ll forfeit his own life if he has to. Yes. It used to be about protecting Dean and Sam, and if at some point, it had become all about revenge – revenge for Mary, revenge for the loss of the peaceful, settled life that John feels he _ought_ to have had – that’s just as good, far as he’s concerned.

He’s spent nearly a month on the road, looking for signs. Driving through towns looking for clues, for demon lore, for _something_. Something that will give him the drop on the damned thing.

Which leads to foolish mistake number two – he’s been so intent on the thing’s trail, he doesn’t realize that he’s returned to Manning, Colorado. Or rather, he realizes, but he’s forgotten about a certain female vampire. One whose partner for eternity is dead by his hand. She hasn’t been too happy about that.

He’s forgotten that Kate has his scent, has it for life. He hasn’t thought about the possibility that she may have gathered an army of new friends, and bided her time, waiting for his return. He’s too distracted, too busy seeing the world through tunnel-vision in which the Demon is the only thing that exists for him.

The vampire and her pack attacks him. One punch to the jaw, and he’s out. Dean and Sam aren’t there to step in and interfere this time. Hell, John doesn’t even have time to draw the Colt. Although he probably would hesitate to use it, given he only has one precious bullet left.

He wakes up in their nest, bound to a column by a heavy, rusty chain. Jaw and muscles aching, blood cooling on his skin. Elkin’s Colt lying in plain (mocking) view on the rough table across the room. Guess they’re taking no chances.

John figures that’s the end of the road. Unless his boys have been tracking him, no one knows where he is. His own father had always told him that his impulsiveness and stubbornness were a bad mix, would get him killed. Guess he’d been right.

He waits, expecting to die. But he then discovers that he’s underestimated Kate’s vindictiveness. Or perhaps her cleverness. Yeah, they torture him daily. More beatings, taunting him. Kate and the others drink from him, too – ‘eating in’, she calls it once, with an evil leer - sinking their teeth into his throat, tearing into him. As he tries not to show any pain or fear. They can take his blood, he can’t stop them, but he won’t give them anything more than that. But they’re also smart, his captors. They’ve been careful not to slash open any key veins or arteries, haven’t taken enough to kill him. Kate obviously has long-term plans for him.

Plans which John finds out soon enough when Kate cuts into her own arm. He knows what’s coming now, tries to clamp his jaw shut. No fucking way. He twists and fights, tries to channel the anger and fear into resisting as long as possible. But she only has her friends grab him, hold him still, yank his jaw open. So she can force her open wound against his lips. Even then, John struggles, trying not to swallow, trying to hold on to his humanity. But it doesn’t work. She pinches his nose shut, cutting off his air, not letting him breathe. Until he has no choice. His body can’t resist any longer, not even for a few seconds, and he has to swallow. To be _turned_. To feel that crawling tingle in his guts, and to know that he’s not going to be the same ever again.

He sits there, helpless, feeling the change take him over. But then the tingle fades, goes away. At first, he doesn’t feel any different. Maybe, by some miracle, it didn’t work on him?

But then he feels the hunger in his belly. A few cramps at first. He doesn’t think anything of it. It’s not like they’ve been feeding him regularly. But it starts to build, to _gnaw_ at him. Then comes the feeling of pressure within his gums. New teeth, straining to get free. He knows now that he has indeed become the monster.

Still chained to the post, he has plenty of time to think. He doesn’t know why Kate did it. Does she expect the lure of immortality, the siren call of vampirism, will make him switch sides? Become tamed, and her _pet_? Or maybe she did this so he could withstand more pain, more beatings from her and her pack? Eternal agony, if she plays her cards right? Hell, she doesn’t have to do anything but keep him chained here, watching his hunger and desperation grow.

Doesn’t matter. He’s not going to sit here and take it. Not going to let them _win_. He waits a day or two, pretends to be weak and sick from his need for blood. It’s not far from the truth, after all. But he’s determined. He didn’t let the Demon kill his boys, and he’s not going to let this pack of blood-suckers beat him, either.

He waits until they are asleep, and then breaks through one of the rusted links in the chain, a weakness which he discovered a couple days earlier. A link which still, even rusted, would have been too strong for a human to break open, but not for a vampire. Despite this, however, he pretends he’s still bound. Waits for the perfect moment to strike, to use the element of surprise.

He’s going to kill them all. There’s only six of them – for some reason they haven’t gotten around to making enough new vampires to fill the nest to capacity - and since four of them usually go out to hunt at a time, that leaves only a couple behind to babysit him. They can’t feed on him any more, now that he’s a vampire like them. And the few human prisoners they have at the moment are already close to death. So John knows they’ll need a new food source soon. He waits until he’s alone, the remaining two vampires off in another room. And then he shakes off the chains and finds a weapon – a long dagger lying on the table. Stupid of them, to leave something so dangerous to them just lying around, but he’s grateful.

He sneaks up on and dispatches the first two. It’s almost ridiculously easy. Then he hides himself and waits for Kate and her companions to return. He lurks in the shadows, taking them out one by one. His scent’s all over the barn, so it doesn’t help them much in trying to locate him. He can move more quietly now, faster than he ever could as a human, which also helps with his ‘hunt’. Not to mention he’s been stalking supernatural beings longer than many of them have been vampires.

He deals with them, first cutting their throats and then finishing the job by sawing through the rest of each neck with the dagger, until only Kate is left. She slinks up to him, calling him “Sweetheart”, obviously trying to charm him. Maybe she’s trying to seduce him, or maybe she has her own concealed weapon that she intends to use to behead him. Doesn’t matter – he doesn’t intend to find out. He waits until she’s just within reach, and then he lunges.

Ironic, that if they hadn’t turned him, he would never have been able to escape. Wouldn’t have been able to kill them all.

Her head strikes the floor with a dull clunk, and it’s over.

Except its _not_. It’s not like the movies. Killing the one who had made you a vampire doesn’t restore you. Doesn’t make you become human again. It doesn’t _free_ him. The only thing that will, is a machete slicing his head from his neck. Or using the Colt’s last bullet on himself.

Which leaves him in a bind. He still feels the drive to hunt. The Demon is still out there. Still a threat to his boys. It needs to die. But he knows that he really ought to kill himself instead, so that he won’t be forced to take innocent lives. Or to endanger his boys, or his friends - the ones Meg hadn’t gotten to, anyway – in his need for blood.

He discovers soon enough, however, that he doesn’t need to take human lives in order to survive. Although fresh animal blood isn’t quite as ‘filling’ as human blood– it’s like eating tofu when you need _steak_ \- it gets him by. Cools that first raging hunger, and gets him by in the early hellish weeks of his new life as a blood-sucking parasite.

Once he’s gotten a bead on the hunger, he starts to make plans, because he can’t hang around here forever. He’s got a job to do. He considers the issue. He knows that vampires keep victims in their nests for days or weeks, bleeding them slowly. The few pitiful prisoners kept there during his own time as a captive, for example. Thinking of them now, he hopes they made it out alive. He hadn’t released them himself, he’d just called after he’d gotten a decent distance away, left an anonymous tip with the local police. It was safer, less complicated. Especially since he was so new to this vampire crap.

But this tells him something important. It tells him that human victims don’t _need_ to die to quench his thirst. Hell, those damned vampires had even done that to him, bleeding him day after day, and not just to torture him. So maybe he can take a little blood from one person, and then move on to a new town and take another small amount from another person. Maybe he can survive without murdering the innocent, the very people he and his fellow hunters, and his sons, have been trying to protect through the years.

Maybe he can still get his long-awaited revenge on the Demon. He still has the Colt, which he’d taken back before leaving the vampires’ nest. And the one bullet.

Perhaps this can even work in his favour. He’s stronger, faster, his senses sharper. He’s never heard of a vampire getting possessed by a demon, either, so maybe this…state will offer its own protection. Getting ridden once by that thing was one time too many.

One problem, though. He has to travel at night to avoid the rays of the sun. That’s a _bitch_.

He repeatedly considers rejoining his boys, but he knows that’s a really bad idea. If he goes back to them, Dean and Sam will again be put in the position of having to kill him. He still doesn’t agree with their actions at the cabin, although he understands their reasons now. He’s not going to put them through that once more.

So he’ll continue his search for the damned devil that killed Mary, that had almost taken Dean’s life. He remembers telling Sammy and Dean that the one thing he never wanted to endure was watching his children die. And the Demon almost made that very nightmare come true. No, he’ll fight this alone, with his newfound powers. He’s not going to risk watching Dean look up at him again, blood pouring from his mouth and chest, _begging_ him.

 _I’m not done ‘til this Demon is done,_ he repeats to himself over and over. A mantra. Yes, he hates what he’s become. Loathes it with every fibre of himself.

But he hates the Demon more.

So he takes the time to refine a new hunting technique. A hunt for blood.

His hunting ground tonight is a bar in some two-bit town. John doesn’t care. Blood here’s no different than anywhere else. And he – like any vampire – can still eat and drink. Enough to get someone to drink with him, lowering their guard. Too bad anything he ingests, other than blood, won’t do a goddamned thing to control his _hunger_.

He goes in, scans the interior of the dim bar with his improved night vision. Searching out likely partners. Donors.

Finally, he spots a woman. Seated alone at one of the rickety, stained tables.

Even now, some things didn’t change – he still goes for blondes. He’s not sure how he feels about that, but all that really matters is the vague sensation in his belly, the one he knows will soon build to a raging pain. He was forced to kill animals during his early hunger-fueled rages, and he doesn’t want to go back there again. Kneeling in mud and droppings, sucking desperately at the throat of a frightened calf, holding it while its struggles get weaker and weaker. Those feelings are worse, in their own way, than anything he’d ever felt before. Even in combat. And he also doesn’t want to wind up killing a person.

So he goes up to her, and uses those manners his long-suffering momma taught him. He asks if she’s alone, and if she’d like another drink.

It’s almost embarrassing to John how easy this is. He doesn’t know if he would’ve had women falling into his lap (almost literally) this easily before he was turned. He’s never tried, after all. He still considers himself a married man. So maybe it’s something vampires put out - a scent, a pheromone - that makes luring their food easier.

Then again, considering the notches on Dean’s belt (not that John has ever really approved of that behaviour, but he’d always supposed that Dean deserved a reward of some kind for all his hunting efforts)…maybe it _is_ a Winchester effect.

It doesn’t take long at all for his companion to become quite tipsy, and for her to start giving John all those little signs that let him know she’s keen to go somewhere with him. The flipping of her blonde locks. The way she brushes her fingertips along her collarbone, unconsciously showing John where she wants him to touch her. He’s known all these tells long before he became a vampire, and he hasn’t forgotten what they mean.

He winds up taking a room for the night at some seedy hotel a few blocks down the road. He motions her into the room ahead of him (more of Momma’s teachings), and shuts the door. He turns the light on quickly, even though he doesn’t need it to see in the dark. He just doesn’t want his partner to witness his eyes flashing inhumanly silver in the dim moonlight coming through the window.

He grabs her by the wrist and pulls her into his arms. Carefully. He doesn’t want her to realize how fearsome, _unnatural_ , his strength is. And he hopes he isn’t going too fast for her. While it’s not too late to end this, to find another donor, he’d really prefer not to start this dance all over again.

Bur she doesn’t seem to mind. She leans into him as he kisses her, pressuring her mouth open with his. So he slides his tongue slickly over hers, feeling her shudder against him. His hand slipping next over the side of her throat, where he can feel the pulse race temptingly beneath the skin.

He moves his mouth downward, two days’ worth of stubble rasping against her smooth skin, but she doesn’t protest as he presses his mouth to her neck. Her perfume - ‘Poison’, she’d told him earlier – is almost acrid to his new senses, but he ignores that annoyance. He kisses her there, then runs his tongue over her skin, tasting the salt. He’s acutely aware of the pulse in her neck, the sweet blood calling to him. And he feels the telltale throb in his gums, his new teeth wanting to rip through, to descend. And then to sink deep into that soft skin, let the blood _free_.

He battles the feeling back. He can control himself, can wait a little longer to slake his dark thirst. To do this in the way that has become (relatively) acceptable to him. Yeah, if he waits half a day longer, it’ll be a different story – he’ll almost certainly be maddened, desperate, ready to kill animals, maybe even to waylay someone in a dark alley – but for now, he can afford to wait for just the right moment.

He spins her around, then pulls her back against him, grinds his erection into her ass. Lifting her hair – straight, not like Mary’s – off and away from her neck and shoulder, baring the side of her throat. He can’t resist leaning in and biting, but lightly. A love-bite, the skin unbroken, unmarred. A taunt directed at his own thirst. Then more strokes of his tongue along the side of her neck, touches which make her shiver and moan. He moves lower, along the curve of her collarbone, one long sweep, as far as he can reach in this position. And then he exhales, cooling the skin, a twinge of guilt as he remembers how much Mary used to like this little trick of his.

She turns to face him again, and her hands move under his leather jacket, his sweater, trying to touch his skin. He pushes her back gently, urges her towards the side of the bed. Then he strips her slowly. Blouse and bra, jeans and underwear and socks, all are soon in a forgotten pile on the floor as he picks her up – again, trying not to make it look as _effortless_ as it is - and lays her down. Studying her as he strips himself. Tan-lines along her chest, and his mouth practically waters at the thought of tracing them with his tongue. Full, heavy breasts, not much like Mary’s at all, and he’s grateful for that difference. Her dark eyes, glazed by the alcohol she’s drunk, watching him greedily as his clothes come off article by article.

He tosses his jeans across the foot of the bed – he’ll need them close at hand later – and climbs on top of her, leaning in to kiss her throat again, to lap at the softness with his tongue. A prelude to later. She tries to touch him, to keep him from sliding down her body, but he won’t allow it. It’s not selfishness, just that he’s learned that he can’t afford to get distracted. Last time he let a sexual partner (donor) reciprocate, he got _too_ into it and lost control, the teeth coming down before he’d been prepared for them. Luckily he’d gotten himself under control before his partner at the time had noticed, but he’d decided then and there that he was going to do all the ‘work’ from now on in these situations. At the very least, he figures it’s payback for the ‘donations’ he’s going to take from them.

So he takes her hands off his shoulders and presses them back down on the pillow. She closes her eyes and leaves them there, lets him do what he wants, which is to shift downwards, to trail kisses down her throat, over the rise of her collarbone, and then down to her breasts. He cups his hand under one, raising the throbbing tip to his lips, unable to resist looking up at her and watching her expression as he suckles. Gently at first, then harder as she pushes up against his mouth, while he runs his hands down to her hips, cradling the curved bones.

She tries to touch him again, forgetting, and he catches her wrists in a firm grip once more. Lays them back on the mattress. So she pushes her hips up sharply into him instead.

He can take a hint. After according her other nipple the same treatment, he slides down lower, between her legs, which spread eagerly to accommodate him. He thinks, not for the first time, that this is far, far better than frightening some poor human in a dark alley. Better than chasing them down, forcing them against the wall, slashing their flesh open with his teeth. As much as he _also_ feels that this gentler method is a betrayal to Mary…

He guides his partner’s legs even further apart, then lowers his head until he can caress her soft folds with the flat of his tongue. He doesn’t touch her clit, not right away. He still remembers how to make love like a mortal man. Even if he no longer is mortal himself. Instead he traces his tongue over every crease, holding her open. Easing his tongue into her, tasting her. Teasing her, making her blood race even faster for him.

She tries once more to touch him, direct him, winding her fingers tightly in his hair. But as much as he doesn’t really mind, it will interfere with the key moment of his plan. So he works her fingers carefully free, and then pins her hands down a final time. Waiting until she stops her half-hearted struggles, until she leaves her hands where he’s placed them. But he makes up for it, her frustrated sigh cut sharply off when he moves his mouth right where he’s sure she wants it.

He teases her clit lightly, using tiny strokes of his tongue. Gradually increasing the pressure. He still has enough man in him to do this properly, dammit. And she seems wordlessly to agree, writhing and moaning. Her skin becoming slick and even saltier with sweat. Delicious.

The throbbing in the little organ under his tongue fuels his blood-lust, but he resists still. Even with her heartbeat racing against his lips, his hands, he fights back the urge to savage her. Not now, and not _this_ spot. He would never – ever – use his teeth on that region. That’s pure cruelty. He’s sunk low – is still sinking, really – but he hasn’t gotten _that_ far down. Never will, if he puts his mind and the remains of his tattered soul into it.

John Winchester isn’t that much of an animal, a monster, just yet. If ever.

She’s _almost_ there. Almost right where he wants – needs - her to be. He readies himself for it, grasping her left leg, gripping her thigh. Holding it still, as he works two fingers of his free hand inside her.

He feels her tense up immediately. She’s right at the precipice, he can sense it. Now. He curls his fingers inside her, prods at sensitive areas, and gives one last hard suck on her clit. As she starts to shake, losing herself in her orgasm, he replaces his mouth with his thumb.

And, letting his teeth descend, he turns his head and sinks them into her inner thigh.

She arches, crying out, but doesn’t push him away. He knows she’s in that region where pain and pleasure mix, flying high on the thermals. She probably hasn’t even realized he’s bitten her. With luck, she won’t notice until after he’s long gone.

Her heart races, spurred by her orgasm. It feeds more blood through the small, deep cuts his teeth have made in her skin. Particularly the small nick he’s made in her femoral artery. Means he can make smaller wounds, yet still get the sustenance he needs. All while distracting her with orgasm. Besides, he prefers to drink from the inner thigh anyways. Slower, safer bleed than the jugular, less likely to kill or injure. And the perfume of her arousal is far more to his liking, to his new sense of smell, than the artificial whale-blubber stuff dabbed on her neck.

He drinks, taking in the thick salt-sweet liquid. Careful, as always, not to take too much. He resists the urge to suck harder, draw the hot liquid in quicker, while the woman is helpless and nearly insensible underneath him. All he needs is a few mouthfuls. That quantity will hold him for nearly a week. He knows that well by now - he worked that little detail out soon after starting his human blood-hunts. Those other vampires were greedy pigs in comparison. Besides, he doesn’t really mind the occasional mild hunger pangs that tend to make their appearance after the first few days of fasting. He’s suffered worse things - shrapnel, near-starvation and dehydration while lurking in remote wooded areas – than this. And all that pales in comparison to watching helplessly as a Demon inhabits his body and slices his son to ribbons, mere inches in front of him. Hunger pangs are _nothing_ , compared to watching his son miss death by inches.

He’s stopped drinking, his teeth now retracted back into his gums, but he leaves his mouth sealed over the wounds, lets his saliva clean them. That’s another thing he picked up on, while he’d been a prisoner of Kate and her pack. When they’d been drinking from him repeatedly, he’d noticed that his wounds had a tendency to clot up very quickly. Something in vampire saliva, apparently. Maybe something they’d evolved – assuming they evolved like humans did – so they could use a victim repeatedly, with less chance of them bleeding out? Either way, he sees no reason not to take full advantage of this ‘feature’ of his new self. Saliva alone isn’t going to infect her, a fact confirmed by Elkin’s careful notes on vampires and their habits. 

By the time his partner stirs, starting to connect with reality again, the wounds are no longer bleeding. Good. Now if he can just keep her from noticing the damage he’s done to her…He retrieves the condom quickly from his jeans. Some misinformed lore has it that vampire males can’t get erections, but John knows from (now personal) experience that this isn’t true. They can get erections, even have sex and orgasms. What he _doesn’t_ know, is whether vampire semen can infect humans the way vampire blood does. If it can turn them. Just in case, he’s taking no chances.

So John makes his way back up his partner’s body, taking care to block her view of the bite-mark. Distract her, exhaust her, that’s the deal now. “Ready for round two, darlin’?” he asks, holding up the condom. He winks at her, acting out playfulness, trying to ignore the familiar ache in his heart, the sense of wrongness that comes from not being in bed with the one person who _deserves_ to be there. Mary.

“I want to do _you_ ,” she pouts. John laughs, gently. “Later,” he replies. “Call it a Ladies’ Night Special – two for the price of one.” He uses his best bedroom voice, low and rumbling. 

As usual, it has the desired effect. He climbs up higher on the bed, his erection looming over her face as he lets her roll the condom onto him. And then he’s back between her thighs. Piercing her, thrusting inside her, closing his eyes and enjoying the sensation almost despite himself. His magnified senses making every touch more intense than he ever experienced as a mortal. She feels so hot, so wet around him. Her skin fragrant and sweet with sweat as he leans to her throat again, kissing her. He thrusts hard against her, grinding his pubic bone against her clit.

He loses track of time, but he certainly has far more stamina now than he’s ever had as a human. He waits until she’s incoherent, clutching at his shoulders with clumsy hands, eyes practically rolled back in her head, begging him. Then and only then does he reach between them, stroking her clit gently. And that’s it. She tenses a final time, throwing her head back against the pillows, and gives in to him. He finally allows himself climax as well, sucking in a  brea th that’s almost a sob, spilling himself inside her.

She’s totally out of it, limp and mostly asleep against damp bedclothes. It’s time. He pulls slowly out of her and backs off, checking the wound quickly, but the new properties in his saliva have done their work. Despite the second rise in her blood pressure, her second orgasm, she’s not bleeding heavily. A little seepage, which he leans in and cleans up with quick darts of his tongue. Waste not, want not.

He covers her with the quilt, then dresses himself as rapidly and quietly as possible. Sneaking to the door, and then out. 

It’s not until he’s safely in his truck and pulling away that he lets the very last of his tension – a feeling he’s carried with him from the moment this ‘hunt’ began – disappear. He knows that tension well, from all his days of hunting the supernatural. The tension of knowing something might go wrong, and badly. The tension of knowing how unpredictable the world can be. Like hunting a striga, only to have it get away at the last minute, and then finding it in your hotel room, starting to drain your youngest of his life. Like not knowing Meg and her unnamed demon-possessed friend would find out so goddamned _quickly_ that the Colt you’d brought with you was a fake. 

Like hating a thing for twenty-two years, but being unable to use that hate as a defense. Being unable to keep it from inhabiting your body and using you as a weapon against your own flesh and blood. Sons you’d happily die to protect.

Which is why John will keep at this. Despite the constant need to search for blood, the risks he’ll have to take, to ensure he can survive and continue to pursue the Demon. Despite the need to avoid the sun. Despite the fact he hates what he’s become.

Because he knows, now, that it really _is_ all about protecting his boys. At all costs. He’s lost Mary, and that was more than enough. Despite what Dean and Sam might think, even despite what John himself sometimes believes, it’s not all about revenge. Mary’s dead, and she’s not coming back. It’s about protecting the family that remains, it always has been. 

Even if it means he can’t be the father to them that he’s wanted to be. That they need him to be.

The Demon and its servants have to die. Even if he has to rip their throats out with his sharp new teeth. Maybe, hopefully, he’ll have more luck against them as a vampire than he did as a mortal.

And then he’ll find a way to have himself ‘put down’. He won’t put his boys through that – he knows they won’t do it. And he’d rather spare them any further painful decision-making. 

But that’s for further down the road. Right now, he has a Demon to hunt down. And he isn’t going to fail this time. He’s lost too much already.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John stumbles onto a new hunting job, and gets a little more ‘action’ than he bargained for. Hee.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I’d love to own John, but I suspect I can’t afford him on my own. Anyone want to pool their funds with me?  
> Beta: Many thanks and inappropriate touching to medicinal_mirth for her beta services.

Didja hear the latest?” one patron jokes to another at the bar behind John. “About that crazy Smith broad, and her ‘haunted house’?”

John pauses in the act of raising a beer bottle to his lips. He’s just come from finishing a job. He’d found an isolated pocket of hillbillies, who were actually werewolves, and it had taken two whole weeks of concentrated effort to wipe out every last one of them. Deliverance, with fangs. After all that, he knows he needs a rest. But it’s tempting to listen in. See if there might be anything to this. 

The other patron laughs raucously. “That Casey, she just needs to get laid. Then she’d stop fantasizing about ghostly dudes in her house, wanting to rape her.”

That got John Winchester’s back up. He doesn’t hold with mistreating a lady. Even the craziest woman on the planet doesn’t deserve that.

He turns around to face them, taking another deep swig. “Crazy bitch, huh?” he asks, pretending to be eager to join in on the fun.

The two of them, buzzed on beer, seem happy to have a new audience. “Hell yeah. You should hear the stories she tells, stranger. About lights flickering, scratching noises in the dark, ooooohhh-woooooohhhhh.” The guy makes what he probably thinks is a creepy ghost noise.

“It’s an old house,” the other guy adds. “Shit happens. You get electrical shortages, vermin infecting the cellar…me, I had rats the size of freakin’ _puppies_ take over my barn last year. You don’t see me crying to anyone who’d listen about how the freakin’ place was _haunted_.”

John nods and grins along, but inside his tired mind, gears are clicking and winding, putting things together. Yeah, those signs could be ghost activity, but it _could_ be an old house thing, too.

“She’s just crazy,” the first guy expounds, gesturing with his beer stein and slopping amber liquid everywhere. “Her husband dies two years ago. She moves into that new place six months later, and since then, totally batshit crazy. Make up any story, just to get someone’s attention. Like I said, she just needs to get laid. She’s not bad-looking. Hell, _I’d_ do her.”

“Get enough beer in you, Bert, and you’d do the Pope,” his slightly less-drunk companion observes.

John finishes his beer, mulling things over. Although they seem convinced, John knows he’ll check it out. He feels a bit of kinship with this woman already. He knows what it’s like to be widowed. He also knows what it’s like to be labeled as ‘crazy’, too. He’d gotten plenty of that in the early months after Mary passed.

He’ll go and see what’s up – if anything – with this Casey Smith. No harm in checking. After a good night’s rest.

 

*~*~*

It takes a few tries – there’s five ‘C. Smiths’ in the phonebook, even in this two-bit town – but he finds her at the third place he visits.

“Miss Smith? Casey Smith?” he asks the woman who opens the door. Mid-forties, he’d guess. Brunette, brown eyes. Slender, takes care of herself. Not typical of a ‘crazy’ person, he thinks.

“Yes?” she asks, looking him up and down.

“I work for a local fumigator. We have a promotion running at the moment, where we do an assessment of homes for free. Forgive my presumption, but I heard in town you might be having some rat problems?”

“Um, no, thank you very much,” she starts to close the door in his face. Damn.

“Please, Miss Smith,” he says, putting his hand out and stopping her before she can close the door all the way. He tries his best to come across as non-threatening. “It won’t take very long. It’s free, after all. When are you going to get another chance like this again?”

But she just shakes her head and continues to push the door closed, and John isn’t going to force the issue.

He saunters back to his truck, considering. He should probably not waste any further time here. Bobby has some leads for him – probable poltergeist six hours’ drive away, a possible witch nine hours in another direction. Why not just get a move on? He doesn’t even know if there’s anything other than a widow’s psychotic grief at work here.

But he can’t make himself leave. Something about the situation. He considers himself a good judge of people, and she didn’t seem crazy at all. He can stake out her place, wait until she leaves, then break in and sweep it. Satisfy himself there’s nothing supernatural going on, and if he’s careful, she’ll never even know he was there.

 

*~*~*

He parks around the corner, then waits until dark.

He gets lucky. It’s nearly midnight, and he’s just about decided to walk back and find someplace to hide himself – there’s a small vacant lot a few doors down from her place, and there’s still enough cover there (trees, bushes) to hide in – when her car comes roaring around the bend. He ducks down, waits for her to drive past and disappear.

He grabs his flashlight, his EMF detector, and a couple of safeguards – shotgun with rock-salt, a vial of holy water, a gun with regular bullets – and gets out of the truck, walking swiftly back towards her place.

John glances around when he gets to her door, but the neighbours all seem to be in bed or not home. Good. He picks the lock, and slips inside.

He whips out the flashlight and EMF detector. He’ll start in the basement.

*~*~*

 

The EMF stays silent. Nothing in the cellar. Nothing on the ground floor.

He’s wasting his time.

Still, he’s been taught to be thorough. So he pauses on the ground floor, stretching his arms and cracking his neck, and then heads up the stairwell to the upper floor. This last floor, and an attic if he can get to it easily. If he still reads nothing on the EMF, he’s going to head back to the motel and flip a coin in the morning – heads poltergeist, tails witch – and get the heck out of Dodge.

He starts down the hallway. Nothing. He steps into the first room on his left. Looks like it’s probably Casey’s bedroom. Floral bedding, faint scent of her perfume in the room.

The covers are rumpled, like she had a bad nightmare before peeling out of here. It makes him wonder…

That’s when the EMF starts screaming at him. Oh, Hell, he thinks, grabbing for the shotgun.

Too late.

Something grabs him, flings him bodily out of the room. He crashes headlong into the wall opposite the doorway, but the thing isn’t done playing ‘catch’. It picks him up again, then hurls him ass-over-teakettle down the stairs. A stair slams into his right shoulder, knocking the breath out of him, and he smashes his left knee into another stair on the next revolution, before ending up flat on his back on the floor, smacking his head in the process.

The flashlight has clattered to the floor next to him, its bulb flickering. Or maybe it’s his consciousness that’s guttering, he’s not sure. By some miracle, he still has his grip on the shotgun.

In the stuttering light of the flashlight, he can see the thing coming for him. Darkness, boiling languidly down the stairs. He struggles to stay conscious, ignoring the screaming in his shoulder, the angry throbbing in his head and knee, as he draws a bead on the thing and fires.

The roar follows him down into blackness. He hopes he got it, or he’s probably dead meat.

 

*~*~*

When he comes to, she’s kneeling over him, shaking him. Casey Smith.

She’s on the verge of tears. “Please, wake up. Wake up, before he kills you. _Please_.”

Groaning, he sits up, and takes stock of himself. He’s bleeding – he can feel the stickiness in the hair on the back of his head. His shoulder and knee are aching in sharp pulses, begging him to lie down and take a load off. But he can’t. He takes a quick look around. Locate your weapons and tools first, that’s the rule. Somewhat hysterical women come second.

His flashlight is there, its light burning steadily now, but he’s only partially reassured. His EMF is smashed to bits on the floor. Dammit. His shotgun is still in his hand, though. If he can walk half-decently, he figures he made out OK, all things considered.

Now that he has his bearings, he turns his attention to Casey. She’s still upset. “Oh God, he hurt you. We have to get you out of here. I don’t know why you’re in my house, but he’ll kill you. You have to leave, _now_.” She tugs at his arm.

He lets her help him to his feet, if only to see how bad the damage _really_ is. Pretty bad, he decides after a moment on his feet, but it could be worse. His knee hurts bad and is probably purple under the denim, but he can stand on it. Kind of. Same deal with the shoulder. He won’t be playing any tennis matches with his right arm, but he thinks it’s nothing a little ice and aspirin won’t cure. His head’s the key area of concern. It’s gashed, but not bad enough for stitches, he decides once he’s felt around the area a bit. Now, as to whether he has a concussion or not…

Throughout his self examination, she stands there, wringing her hands and looking nervously over her shoulder. Up the stairs, he notices.

“Please,” she begs again, once she sees she has his full attention. “You have to _go_.”

“No,” he answers firmly. “I have to kill this damned thing, so it doesn’t throw any more of your houseguests down the stairs. Helluva watch-dog, it is.”

She stares at him, wide-eyed. Probably not used to anyone actually _believing_ her. Actually taking this seriously. “Who _are_ you?”

“Winchester. John Winchester.” He’d shake hands, but instead he reloads the shotgun. Priorities.

“You’re…not a fumigator,” she says, still watching him. She looks more afraid of him than the ghost, now. He supposes the ghost is, at least, a known quantity. A known danger. While he’s a stranger who randomly turned up in her home. Armed.

“Well, technically I _am_ , but…I’m more in the business of exterminating just the sort of thing that threw me down your stairs,” John explains.

She looks like she doesn’t know whether to believe him or not. He can’t blame her. “That’s why you broke in?”

“Yep. I figured if those jerks in town were right and you were making it all up for some reason, I’d just sneak in, scan for signs of a ghost-“ he paused and nodded at the sad remains of the EMF detector, “and if none were to be found, I’d leave and you’d be none the wiser. I did try and talk my way in, before,” He smiles at her now, and lowers the shotgun when he belatedly realizes that it’s probably scaring her.

“But you found something,” she says. She relaxes, just slightly. She’s not alone with this any more. John understands that feeling, too.

“Boy, I’ll say,” John presses his hand to the back of his head, then shows her the bloody palm to underscore the fact.

“Is it dead- um, I mean, _gone_?” she asks, looking up the stairs again. She must think the fact he’s still standing is a good sign.

“No. I only drove it away temporarily. Rock-salt,” he gestures with the shotgun. “It could be back at any moment. Or, it may leave us alone for the rest of the night. They’re fickle like that, ghosts.”

She nods and starts to move towards the kitchen. “I’ll get some ice.”

He’s soon trying not to bleed on one of the floral couches in her sitting room, ice wrapped around his knee and shoulder with towels. He lets her clean the worst of the blood from his head-wound. “Is it deep?” he asks her, his eyes still trained on the stairs. He wishes he still had his EMF. And he wishes he could send her away, but with his head injury, he knows he needs someone here to make sure he stays conscious, in case he’s got a concussion and doesn’t know it. He knows he could – should – go to the hospital and get checked out, but now that the ghost has shown itself, he’s too stubborn to just come back and try again later. Something tells him, besides, that even if he tried to send Casey away, she wouldn’t go.

“I…don’t think so. But I’m no doctor.” She presses ice against that wound, too, and John hides his wince.

“Tell me about this ghost of yours. The more I know, the better chance I’ll have of sending it packing.”

Another nervous glance up the stairs. “It started soon after I moved in. And only at night. At first, there were scratching noises in the hallway. I called the exterminator, and they found nothing. Later on, the lights started flickering, and I smelled ozone, so I called an electrician. More nothing.”

“I didn’t think anything of it at first. Old homes are like that. But then weirder things started to happen. Objects disappearing and reappearing. And I started having the…dreams.”

“Dreams?” John prods after a few long moments of silence.

“About a man. But I couldn’t see his face. He’d speak to me, but when I woke up, I never remembered what he said.”

She pauses, takes a deep, shaky breath. “At first, I had the dream once, maybe twice a month. But then things got much worse. The noises got louder, the electrical problems worse. And then objects actually started floating off shelves and tables, _right_ in front of me. Finally, I was dreaming of that man every night!”

Another long pause, and she looks back up the stairwell again, and John knows she’s afraid. “Finally, four months ago, I had another dream of him. But it wasn’t like the other dreams. I dreamed of him….forcing himself on me. And when I woke up, my bed was shaking and my nightgown was tearing itself to pieces and there was this _weight_ on me, pressing me down on the bed, and I could feel him, trying to get _inside_ me-.”

A sob escapes her throat, and John takes his eyes off the stairwell long enough to give her a reassuring look. “It’s OK,” he says. “I’m going to see to it that it- he – doesn’t bother you any more.”

She nods. Gathering herself, she goes on, “When the pressure eased up, I bolted out of there. Right out of my home. I didn’t want to come back, either.”

“But you did,” John fills in, returning his watchful gaze to the stairwell.

“Yes, I did,” she sighs. “It’s my home! It was supposed to be a new beginning for me, after Grant died. I didn’t want to admit to myself that this could be going bad, that everything in my life was falling apart again.” Another sob starting in her voice, but she fights it back this time.

More softly, she goes on, “I did stay out, though, the first week after that dream. I told a few people I trusted what had happened, and word got out. Small towns, you know.”

John nods. He _does_ know.

“Well, soon everyone is saying ‘Casey’s nuts, too scared to sleep overnight in her own house’. Calling me crazy. After enough of that, even I started to doubt what had happened to me. I went to see a doctor, he tells me it’s a hypnagogic hallucination, and that I probably tore those holes in my clothes myself.” She shakes her head in disgust.

John nods again. He remembers some of the things people had said to him after the fire. Explanations they tried to offer, trying to get him to ‘substitute’ the craziness he’d seen with his own eyes with something which made more sense to _them_. Half the time, their theories’d been even crazier than what had actually happened.

“So finally, I returned home. I was scared, but…nothing happened. There were no noises, no electrical surges, no dreams, no attacks. I thought that whatever it was, it was over.”

She pauses again, and John looks over at her. “Obviously, it wasn’t,” he comments dryly.

“No,” she agrees, “it wasn’t. He attacks me again. And again. After enough of them, I see there’s a pattern to it.”

John doesn’t let his eyes leave the stairs, but tilts his head towards her, shows her he’s listening.

“Every seventeen days. Like clockwork. That’s when the…rape attempts happen. So, I learned to stay away on those nights. And usually a couple nights before and after, too, because he’ll do other things around those times. Like throw objects around, or shove me.”

“That why you took off tonight?” John asks.

“Yes,” she says, taking another deep breath. “But I forgot my wallet. I came back, thinking I’d just run in and grab it off the table…but I saw your flashlight moving around in here, and after it threw you down the stairs, I just couldn’t…I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if someone got seriously hurt by him. I’d feel it’s somehow my fault.”

John can understand that. It’s her home, her turf. Like having a vicious pet, one that hurts a neighbourhood kid. Not that she has any control over this thing, but he understands the sentiment.

She’s silent now, her story told, and John starts to plan his attack. He’s seen no further sign of the thing, and now that he’s calmed down, he thinks again that he should probably get them both out of here. Yeah, he’s got the shotgun, but he’s also hurt. Besides, if it’s your standard haunting, he just needs to find the names of men who’ve lived in this house, probably some rape stats and the like, and then find the guy’s grave and salt and burn the corpse. After which, Casey can go back to sleeping soundly in her own home, and can get on with her life.

Which also means there’s nothing else he can actually _do,_ here. This asshole’s grave is where he needs to be. Decision made, he stands awkwardly up from the couch. “C’mon, ma’am. We’re going to put you up in a motel” – he wishes he could spring for a _h_ otel, but he has to watch his cash flow until the next credit card application comes in - “for the next day or so. I’ll likely need a day or two to do what I have to do. And then it should be safe for you to come home.”

“OK,” she says, standing up and offering him her arm for support. “You’re the expert on this, I hop-“

It’s in front of them both, suddenly. Whirling blackness, in which John only gets impressions of body parts. Enraged eyes, fisted hands curled into claws, mouth twisted in a snarl…and Casey torn violently away from his side. Right before John gets himself forcibly reacquainted with the wall again, ice spraying in every direction.

He slides down the wall, landing on his knee – the wounded one – trying to get his breath back into cramped lungs. She’s across the room, lying on the floor on her back, and John can hear the loud rasping purr of cloth being torn, her gasps and cries of protest. Damned thing’s trying to take her right in front of him, for God’s sake.

He struggles to his feet, cocking the shotgun. He’ll have to fire at it and risk hitting her. The rock salt will sting, but it won’t kill her. John doesn’t always understand the minds of women, but he’s fairly sure that if he’d had a chance to pull her aside and ask her, she’d take rock-salt spraying over rape by a supernatural assailant any day.

“Casey, stay low!” he shouts, and then fires at the thing. A roar, and it dissolves once again, and then John is limping towards her as quickly as his damaged body will let him.

She scrambles out the door ahead of him, and they keep going, slowed only by his knee. He directs them both to his truck, waiting until they’re both in the cab to take stock of any new injuries. He checks her first. She didn’t get hit by any rock-salt, thankfully. Her clothes are history, though. “Are you hurt? Did it get a chance to-?” he doesn’t know how to phrase it delicately.

“No. But…” she looks down at herself, embarrassed. Her clothes have been reduced to long rags, and John can see entirely too much pale, soft skin. He jerks his eyes away, remembering belatedly that there’s an old blanket stuffed behind the driver’s seat. He grabs it and shakes the grit and dust off, before handing it to Casey. It’s a garment hardly befitting a lady, but at least it’ll protect her modesty.

He turns his attention to checking himself out. His knee and shoulder have already reported in, and they ain’t happy. More bruises and abrasions from his high-speed introduction to the wall the second time. And his head still aches. It’s a trip to the hospital for him, he reluctantly decides

At least he’ll be telling the truth, partially, this time – he fell down some stairs.

“I’ll find you a place to stay,” he tells her, “And once I get these wounds looked after, I’ll find a way to get rid of it for good. I give you my word on that.”

 

*~*~*

The next night, he’s standing in a graveyard, watching the asshole’s bones burn. It was hard work, digging up the grave with a busted shoulder and knee, but he prefers this kind of thing to sitting in dusty libraries trying to dig up intell. He’s good at it, good at putting things together, but he’s always been more of a man of action.

Not that he’d been in the library for long. He’d looked up rapists who attacked women every seventeen days, and only gotten one hit, as he’d expected. Young guy, in his thirties, liked to follow women home. If they were alone, he’d get them to open the door, overpower them, hurt them. He was caught, and then raped and killed by his fellow inmates in prison. Poetic justice, John thinks. Except for the haunting, of course.

The one surprise had been finding out the bastard’s turf – and indeed, his grave – hadn’t been in Casey’s town at all. A couple hours’ drive away, in fact.

It’s an oddity. He would’ve expected the crimes to have happened locally, but he supposes now that the body’s been salted and burned, this anomaly doesn’t matter. He’s too drained and achy to care. He just wants to swallow some painkillers, take a scalding hot shower, and crawl into bed. And sleep for at least two weeks straight.

Instead, he waits until the body is nothing but warm ashes, and then he fills in the hole again. Tamps everything down as best he can.

He drives back into town, rock and roll blasting on the stereo to help him stay awake. No concussion, the hospital said, but he’s bone-weary and ready to keel over. He’ll grab some shut-eye, and then take Casey back to the home that now belongs only to her.

 

*~*~*

“I don’t know how to thank you,” she says. They’re back in her sitting room, but this time instead of ice and shotguns and rock-salt, they’re having tea and cookies. It’s not really John’s thing – he thinks he was actually more comfortable with the prior arrangement, really – but it seemed rude to just drop her at her place, give her a wave, and take off. He’s been where she is. There’s questions, and while he doesn’t know all the answers, he knows from his own early days in Lawrence, and finding Missouri, that talking it out often helps just as much as having answers.

“It’s what I do,” he says with a shrug. “Someone’s got to.”

“You actually go all over the country, doing things like this?” she asks.

“Yep,” he takes a sip of his tea, trying not to notice that Casey looks pretty damned good. Nothing like a release from stress to bring out the inner supermodel.

“A dirty job, but someone’s got to do it?” she asks wryly.

“Something like tha-“

The world suddenly goes sideways, and next thing he knows, he’s been reintroduced to the wall. Again.

Christ, it’s still here.

He feels something rake down his back like claws, and he curses himself for his overconfidence. He left nearly all his weapons in the truck. All he’s got is a pocket-knife and a lighter. And a panicked female calling his name.

The thing has faded away again, for the moment, and Casey grabs his arm, trying to pull him towards the front door. But things start to launch themselves off the coffee table, hurtling towards them, and John reverses their direction, instead hauling them both up the stairs. Teacups shatter against the stairs and walls around them.

They both pause at the top of the stairs, gasping. John can feel slow trails of blood inching down his back. Casey’s dress has a few rips in it already. They wait, bracing themselves for the next attack.

It doesn’t come, though, and John thinks he knows why. It’s got them trapped in the house. It has the leisure to toy with them now.

He wracks his brain. There were no other rapists who fit the profile. And he definitely burned the remains to ashes. There’s something else.

He pulls Casey closer, speaking low and fast into her ear. “There must be something belonging to him, in this house. Something the ghost has latched onto. Is there anything – anything at all – in this house that was here when you moved in, that you kept? Pictures, furniture, toys, _anything_?”

“There’s…there’s a painting. I found it in the basement after I moved in, and it was pretty, so I kept it. It’s just a landscape. I don’t see how-“

“Where is it?” John asks harshly. They don’t have time to play art critics. That’s got to be it. The source. If he can destroy it, game over.

“My bedroom,” she says. Makes sense. Explains why his EMF went crazy, why the ghost first attacked him there.

John stumbles into her bedroom, spotting the painting immediately. He yanks it from the wall, fumbling in his pocket for his knife. Something whips from the top of the vanity across the way, smashing into the wall next to his head, and the room fills with an overpowering floral scent. Damned thing’s hurling perfume bottles at his head.

He tries to duck under the side of the bed for cover, starting to cut the painting from the frame.

“What are you doing?” In his haste to get the painting, he’s forgotten about Casey. She’s crouched on the ground beside him, terrified.

He doesn’t have time to explain. Four sharp movements, and the painting is free of the frame. His lighter’s still in his other pocket, and he gropes for it, hoping the old canvas will catch quickly.

A shriek, and Casey’s been torn away from him for the second time in as many days. But this time, as much as he wants to, he stops himself from going to her aid. Attacking her will keep the thing distracted, and if he’s quick, it won’t have a chance to do much.

That’s when he sees it. It must have been hidden between the canvas and the backing of the painting. A Polaroid photo. A shot of a young man. He doesn’t look dangerous or evil, he looks like the kind of guy daughters bring home to meet their parents. A guy that Dean or Sammy, if they’d had normal lives, would’ve gone drinking with and shot hoops with. But John’s seen this face before. He saw it in the newspaper articles he’d read at the library.

He tosses the canvas aside and grabs the photo, trying to ignore Casey’s screams behind him. A few seconds more, and she’ll be safe. He sets the photo alight.

Another flung object misses his face by inches, but he barely notices. The photo is burning energetically, half-consumed already, and he drops it on the floor.

Something smashes into him, shoves him back against the wall, and darkness smothers him, stealing his breath. He has just enough time to hope he wasn’t wrong, or he’s dead and Casey will pay dearly for his mistake.

He feels claws start to puncture his shoulders.

Then, nothing. He can see again, the darkness shredding away. No more weight against him, no more knifelike talons against his flesh. Just him and the stink of smoke and ozone and Casey sobbing against the other wall, bruised and disheveled and shaking with fear. Dammit to Hell, whatever was he thinking, _using_ her to distract the thing?

He groans and gets to his feet, stumbling over to her. “I’m so sorry,” he says, helping her to her feet. “But it’s gone for good. It was connected to a photo hidden in the painting all along. Now that I’ve burned it, you’re safe.”

She takes a deep breath and nods, and lets him lead her out of the room. There’s bruises on her face, and a small, deep cut on her forehead, and John’s guilt pricks him harder than any ghostly claws. “Here, let me see to that cut.” It’s the least he can do.

They wind up in her kitchen. She doesn’t seem to want to be anywhere on the upstairs floor right now, which is entirely understandable. He cleans the cut, trying not to notice how close he is to her now. She smells good under the reek of fear-sweat, and her hair is soft, and once again there’s entirely too much smooth flesh on display through the holes the greedy thing has torn in her clothing.

Despite himself, he’s turned on. Sex and death are intertwined, and he came pretty close to buying the farm up there in her bedroom. She’s alive and vital under his hands, and it’s tempting to forget the promise he made to himself, to be celibate. Mary’s been dead for years, and he knows deep down it wouldn’t be the betrayal he often convinces himself it would be, but…

He closes up the cut, not deep enough to need stitches, and then shuts the first-aid kit. “You’re not bleeding anywhere else? No broken bones or anything?” He won’t look her in the eyes. He’s going to make sure she’s OK, and then he’s out of here. Safer to go back to his motel, take care of his own wounds. And then, make use of his hand. Casey doesn’t owe him anything, least of all her body. Especially after what that ghost has been trying to do to her.

She shakes her head, then catches his rough chin in one firm hand. Makes him look her straight in the eyes. “I’m free?” she asks softly.

“Yes.”

She’s still holding his chin, and he shifts uncomfortably. “Thank you,” she continues. “Not just for getting rid of him, either. For believing me, for letting me know I wasn’t…. _crazy_.”

He understands her feelings perfectly. If only someone had believed _him_ in those early days. At first, when he’d babbled about what he’d seen – Mary on the ceiling, bleeding, burning – his friends had chalked it up to stress. Losing your wife in a freak accident, being left with two young children, and the police looking at you as if you were guilty of murder…who _wouldn’t_ be talking crazy?

But when some time had passed and he hadn’t changed his mind about what he’d seen, his friends had started to look at him sideways, and he’d finally realized it was best to shut up, especially if he wanted to keep his boys. So he’d tried his best to collect his books in secret. Practically sneaking around like a thief while visiting those psychics. Wondering the whole time whether he really _was_ losing it or not. Thank God for Missouri.

So he knows exactly what this nightmare has been like for Casey. But he still has to get out of here befo-

She kisses him.

John freezes. He wants to kiss her back. Too many lonely nights on the road, with only his fading memories of Mary’s face and body for company. Too much isolation. Too little reward for what he’s been doing.

He wants to give in to this. He needs it, badly. Mary would understand, he knows that. But he still has to mount his token resistance. He edges back slightly. “You don’t have to do this.”

Casey’s holding onto his shoulders – he ignores the mild ache in the still-bruised one – and now she leans in, whispering against his lips. “I know. All this time, he- that thing- was trying to force itself on me. I never had a choice. Now, I have one.” And she kisses him again.

All thought, all hesitation melts away. When’s the last time a woman wanted him like this?

He kisses her back, tries to slip her the tongue. Tries, and succeeds. She’s gripping his torn shirt with both hands, and she startles him by suddenly getting up off the kitchen chair, their lips still locked together, and seating herself on his lap. He’d be embarrassed by the raging bulge in his jeans if she wasn’t so obviously as eager as he is.

She tastes so good. Tea and sweetness. There’s a rip in her dress, strategically placed under his hand, and he trails his fingers lightly across her skin. Warm silk under his fingertips, and she doesn’t stop kissing him, not even when he dares to invade the tear, slipping in to curl his hand gently around the soft weight of one breast, still clad in slightly rough-textured lace.

Casey’s trying to get his shirt off now, so he lets her. Pulls his hand out of her ruined dress, then helps her strip him to the waist. He has to close his eyes and lean back as she explores his skin, cool fingertips tracing down the long scar on his right cheekbone. Exploring the shrapnel wounds at the top of his left shoulder. Tracing along the bite-mark on his right forearm. Discovering the old scars from claw-marks on his left side. She asks about each mark, and he explains. “Knife attack in ‘Nam. Exploded mine in ‘Nam. Possessed human in Ohio. _Really_ ticked-off ghost in New York.”

He opens his eyes and looks up at her. Twines his fingers in her hair and pulls her in for another series of kisses. Until she surprises him again by pulling free and shifting downwards, and he feels her warm tongue lapping at one of his nipples. He’s definitely not used to women being sexual initiators, but he’s pretty sure he could get used to it.

He wants to even the score. As soon as he can, he’s reaching for the buttons at the front of her dress. More soft, pale skin, and he tugs her closer so he can press kisses against her cleavage, and a pleasurable tingle goes up his spine as her fingers slide through his hair, encouraging him to linger. His stubble doesn’t seem to bother her, which is a good thing. Shaving’s not exactly high on the priority list when you’re busy hunting down evil.

Her bra comes off at some point, and he shifts objectives, using his mouth and hands to make those pretty nipples stiffen, to make her moan softly and press against him. He’s almost forgotten what it sounds like, when a woman’s happy with what you’re doing to her. John loves that noise.

He’s a hungry man, and he doesn’t want pizza (or so Dean’s Alice Cooper albums would put it). That’s when he stands up, holding onto Casey, and lifts her onto the kitchen table. They should be on a bed, but he’s not really thinking that far ahead, she’s wrapping her legs tightly around his hips and he’s got other things to think about.

Casey’s hands slide over his shoulders, across his back…and then he remembers. She gasps and pulls a little away from him, and shows him her hand. It’s bloody. “Your back!” she says, looking apologetic.

He doesn’t care. A couple of scratches, whatever. He’s had worse. “Later. Lay back,” he orders her.

Her dress comes off easily – especially when one of the rents in it tears completely when he’s trying to draw it down over her hips – and he tosses it away. He pauses, however, in his attempt to make her surrender her remaining clothing, when she mutters, “Oh, crap.”

She’s blushing, and he can’t figure out why. She’s looking at her own legs, and he finally notices the small hairs. Apparently, she hasn’t been shaving her legs. Probably wasn’t expecting to be having sex in her kitchen with a relative stranger when she got up this morning.

“Sorry,” she says, misinterpreting his scrutiny.

He doesn’t care. He was married, once, he knows the drill. “Nothing to feel sorry about,” he rumbles, and he shows her how little it bothers him by pulling his chair closer to the table, lowering himself into it, and then running his tongue teasingly up the lightly furred skin of her left calf.

She doesn’t protest any further, just closes her eyes and lays back onto the table. She still doesn’t protest when he hooks his fingers in the waistband of her panties and makes them amscray. She helps, instead, pulling herself closer as he guides her, drawing her to the edge of the table.

It’s been awhile, and John supposes he might be a little rusty. Best to take his time, not rush things along, no matter how much his aching balls demand otherwise. A single long, leisurely caress of his tongue between her folds, however, and she’s clutching at his head again. Directing him right to the throbbing node at the top of her slick centre.

Well, as long as that’s what she wants, he’s not going to argue. He suckles gently, reaching underneath her to grip the generous curves of her ass. Despite the needy ache inside him, he’s going to stay at this as long as she wants him to. This is for them both.

She arches, and she tastes suddenly different on his tongue. Richer, thicker. Oh yes, definitely worth the near-pain of waiting.

But it looks like he’s not going to have to wait any longer, because she’s suddenly sitting up and working at the fly of his jeans.

He struggles to keep the logical side of his brain going, just for a few more seconds. “Protection?” he asks. Two rebellious adult sons are enough.

Casey’s cheeks turn pink again. “Um, there might be a condom in my nighttable upstairs. If it hasn’t expired yet.”

Mentally crossing his fingers, John picks Casey up. And then carries her carefully up the stairs to the bedroom. His shoulder and knee don’t like it much, but screw them. When’s the next time he’ll get to be all Neanderthal with a beautiful woman? Likely not for awhile.

The bedroom’s little more than a war zone – it still smells of perfume, and there’s glass all over the place, a scorched mark on the floor that was the final resting place of the ghost’s source – but the bed is intact and miraculously clear of debris. So once Casey finds the little packet jammed in the back of the top drawer and confirms (also miraculously) it hasn’t expired yet, they both climb on the bed and get to it.

His jeans and shoes wind up shoved to the foot of the bed, and once he’s properly clothed in latex, he gets on top of her, and then inside her.

It’s been too long since he’s immersed himself in the sweetness of a woman’s body. He keeps having to stop, to catch his breath. And so he won’t come in under five seconds flat. He kisses Casey, strokes her soft hair and skin, breathing her in, holding her close. Hot, slippery limbs wrapped tightly around him, and she gets his blood moving even faster, saying his name in a gasping little voice whenever he starts to move inside her again.

He can’t hold back any longer. He thrusts, rough and deep, and empties himself into her. It’s OK, though. She’s apparently been waiting for his surrender, because even as the last of his climax shudders through him, she’s going over the edge.

It’s over, and they’re lying there, limbs still locked together. He’s going to have trouble saying good-bye.

 

*~*~*

It’s bothering him, the fact that Casey’s house seems like such an unlikely site for this ghost to have haunted, so he hits the books one last time before going to see Casey.

After a couple hours’ work, he finds it. The connection. The mother of the rapist had once lived in Casey’s home. Apparently, she’d wanted a fresh start, much like Casey herself once had.

It had gone bad for the asshole rapist’s mother, too. She must’ve gotten some of his personal effects after his murder, including the photo the bastard was using as its source. They’d found her one day, dead, and there were signs she’d been raped. No suspect was ever questioned. What a sick freak, to violate and kill his own mother…

The home had stood empty for years. Until Casey had come along. The realtor must’ve neglected to mention the house’s history. Typical.

He thinks about Casey as he drives back to her place to say goodbye. He’s got those two possible leads from Bobby to follow up on. He can’t linger. Much as he wants to.

She’s sitting on the porch when he pulls up. She gets up to hug him as he makes his limping way up the stairs. Damn knee’s going to make a real bitch of itself on the next job, he knows, and it’s almost enough to convince him to stay awhile, rest up. But he doesn’t know how many innocent people might be hurt or even killed while he’s sitting around playing house with Casey Smith. So he’ll resist. He has to.

“You’re leaving,” she whispers against his ear, arms wound around him. “You’ve got other people to help.”

“Yes,” he squeezes her a little tighter. He shouldn’t; shouldn’t feel this affection for her, but can’t help himself. He doesn’t think he’s ever been this conflicted about leaving a job before.

“Promise me you’ll come back and see me, John,” she says. It’s almost an order, and he grins, even though she’s still got her mouth to his ear and she can’t see it. Tough broad.

“I promise.”

He’s made a lot of promises over the years. To himself. To Mary. To Dean and Sam. To his fellow hunters.

He hopes this is one he can actually keep.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s sex, dude!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Well, my birthday’s in December, so if anyone wants to buy him for me…be my guest!  
> Beta: Many thanks to medicinal_mirth , both for her mad beta skilz and for originally suggesting the idea to me. *gives virtual cookies*

John gets home late, muscles aching from a long day. Too late for supper, but that’s OK. He’s not that hungry. Not for _food_ , anyway.

“Honey, I’m home!” he calls out, shutting and locking the door behind him. He grins just a little to himself. Mary’s always hated being called ‘honey’. 

“I’m in the bedroom!” Good, she’s already right where he wants her. He’s already aching in a totally new way. A pleasing way.

Especially when he walks in and sees what she’s wearing. _Is it my birthday?_ he wonders. Sexy, fuck-me heels. Fishnet stockings. A mini-skirt that could very easily be taken for an oversized belt, it’s so short. A tight-fitting top that leaves nothing to the imagination. And he’s already got a good imagination. 

Not that it matters. If Mary came to him wearing nothing more than that crowning glory of blonde strands, he’d still be a happy man.

“Sweetheart,” she greets him, her voice low and husky. “Did you have a good da-“

He strides across the room, catching her in his arms and cutting off her words with his lips. He doesn’t want her to talk. He’d much rather have a ‘conversation’ between their bodies. That’s what he wants tonight. He’s got no patience for anything else.

John holds her against him, then curves his hands over her hips and pulls them forward, until he’s sure she can feel his erection throbbing against her belly. He kisses her - soft, tender kisses for the mother of his precious sons, for the woman who finally made an honest man out of him. 

She leans her weight on him, sighing against his lips, and his hunger builds. The day’s aches and pains are forgotten as he slides his tongue into her mouth, exploring and testing. She’s had coffee recently, he can taste it. He curls his fingers into her hair, wrapping the soft lengths around his fingers. It’s that hair that first got his attention, he remembers.

He’d been working at the garage, his coveralls and face stained with grease, when she’d brought in her Daddy’s old klunker. A minor car accident, resulting in a busted-up fender. She’d been upset, thinking there’d be no way to hide the damage from her father. But John had ridden to the rescue, and she’d been grateful. 

He’d always had a thing for blondes. In lieu of payment for saving her some bad trouble with her Daddy, he’d asked her out for coffee. At the end of the evening, he’d even dared to kiss her. And her mouth had tasted then just like it did now – coffee and sweetness and _her_.

Back in the present, he moves his mouth from her lips, pausing to kiss her all over her face. Eyelids, forehead, cheekbones, nose, chin, ear lobes. Everything gets paid equal attention, just the way she likes it. He brushes his day-old stubble along the curve of her jaw, and she shivers and clutches at his arms with slender, strong fingers. 

Her hair is still wrapped around his fingers, and he uses that grip to get her to tilt her head back. Her throat is long and pale, a vampire’s dream, all cream skin and delicate bones, and he leans in, breathing in the faint remains of her perfume, and drags his teeth lightly over her collarbone. When she shivers again, her breath catching, he chuckles. He’d learned very early on which buttons of hers to push, and at what time.

He untangles his hands carefully from her hair, then pushes her gently back against the edge of the bed, until she sits down. Almost immediately her hands are on him, cupping his hot length through his jeans, but he takes her wrists and carefully removes her hands. No, not yet. That’s not how he wants things to go tonight.

Instead, he starts to undress her. He takes the hem of her top in his hands, pulling it slowly over her head. She’s not wearing a bra underneath, and he can feel the blood pulsing faster inside him at the sight of her nipples, tight and pointed.

He remembers all those nights during the war, when he’d lain in his cold, uncomfortable bunk. Fantasizing about her, about being with her in this way. Back then, she’d refused to give up her virginity to him – not until our wedding night, she’d insisted – but he hadn’t really minded. Because she’d given him everything _else_.

That was one of the few things that had made the war even remotely bearable. In the darkness of the bunk, even with screams and gun-shots in the distance, he could wrap callused hands around himself and picture Mary in all her naked glory. His favourite fantasy had been her on top, blonde strands brushing over his face as she’d ridden him. And even though she’d never actually ‘ridden’ him at all at that point, it was still a potent fantasy. Picturing her naked breasts, just like this, unbelievably pale skin and dark, erect nipples, bouncing with every imagined thrust. How many times had he come against his own palm, just to that image of her. Visualizing in his mind’s eye her skin filmed with sweat, her hands braced on his chest, her head thrown back. Hearing in his head all those noises he so loved to draw out of her when he was using his hands or mouth on her, between her legs. Imagining them coming from her lips as she rode him into an orgasm.

He realizes he wants that now, too. Wants to taste the slippery salt tang of her, wants to feel her thighs quivering beneath his hands. So he pushes her shoulders until she’s lying back on the bed, legs dangling over the side, and he gets down on his knees.

“Hey,” she starts to protest.

“Hey, yourself,” he throws back, reaching for the zipper of that barely-there skirt. John has it off her in about two seconds flat. The stockings and shoes are hot, but they’re also in his way. He wants to touch _skin_. He doesn’t want any barriers of any kind – even flimsy ones like clothing – between them. Two clunking sounds as her shoes go, and then he’s pulling off the fishnets.

His palms glide up the insides of her legs, easing her thighs apart. She’s not protesting any more. Crisp, dark blonde curls tickle his lips, his tongue, as he tastes her. Incredibly soft skin, yielding under the press and push of his tongue.

He slips back in time again. To their wedding night. He remembers trying to carry her over the threshold. He’d almost banged her head against the door-frame. Not surprising, considering he’d been a little drunk by that point. She’d also had a fair bit to drink, leaving her flushed and giggly. He remembers suggesting that maybe they sleep it off, that he didn’t want to hurt her accidentally, not for her first time, _their_ first time, because he was “too blitzed to ‘aim’ properly”.

She’d laughed, he remembers, and pulled him down on top of her on the bed. He doesn’t remember exactly how their clothes came off. But at some point, they’d been pressed together, skin against skin, kissing each other like kissing had just been invented.

Eventually he’d shifted down between her legs, just as he’s doing right now. Spread her open, licked his way up and down between her soft folds. He does it to her now, repeating the familiar action, almost exactly the way he did then. Enjoying the slickness under his tongue, the way she wriggles against his firm grip, her soft moans. The scent of her heavy and luscious.

But he also holds back now, just as he did then, waiting until her clit is swollen and stiff, almost silently _begging_ for his touch. When he does, sucking it hard into his mouth, pressing his teeth carefully around it, he gets the same reaction now as he did back then. A rush of fluid, a shuddering of her legs around him, a soft cry of surrender.

“Your turn,” she says huskily, holding out a hand to him. He gets up onto the bed, finally letting her strip his clothes away. He ends up against the headboard, leaning against the pillows, that wonderful hair fanning over his belly, his thighs, as her searing mouth wraps around him.

He closes his eyes, head tilted back, stroking the tousled golden strands again. Heat and wetness engulf him, her tongue playing along the underside of his shaft, and he can feel her fingertips dragging lightly along his balls. She’s always been enthusiastic, always seems to enjoy taking him into her mouth. It’s one of the reasons why, when all his co-workers had bragged at work about all the tail they were getting, or his Army buddies in that damned war had done the same, that he’d just smiled secretly and never let on that _his_ sexual partner was still a virgin – and that he didn’t mind. At all. That he was too busy having some of the best sex he’d ever had in his life, and if it was all _oral_ sex, so what?

His mind jumps back into the present, as she’s taking him deep into her throat, and he has to clutch the sheets. He lets it go as long as he can bear it, but finally, he has to say “Stop.”

A quick rummage in the night-table and he’s got a condom. Mary’s never been much for the pill, and he can’t argue with that – he wouldn’t be keen on screwing with his hormonal balance, either – so her rolling the rubber onto him is as natural a part of their lovemaking as him plunging his tongue deeply inside her.

He guides her into one of their favourite positions. She’s lying on her side, facing away from him. It’s a good, relaxing position after a long day of work, and he can get deeply inside her. He can bury his face in her hair, breathe her in. And he can tease her mercilessly, his hands free to reach around her and lightly pinch her swollen nipples, or to slide all the way down and rub across her firm clit.

When he’s ready, he starts to thrust, slow and gentle at first. Just like their wedding night. A different position back then – missionary, of course - but the same slow starting pace. They hadn’t bothered with the condom that first time, either. She’d said she didn’t mind getting pregnant right away, and he hadn’t been in a fit state to argue, being addled with lust and champagne at the time. But he remembers even at this moment how she looked, the lamps in the room turning her skin golden. How her hair had gleamed, scattered across the pillows. The glisten of the wetness between her thighs. 

He remembers that first time he’d penetrated her. She’d flinched when he’d finally breached her barrier, and he remembers freezing dead and apologizing. But she’d reached around him then, digging her nails into his hips, and looked up into his eyes, saying “Don’t apologize, John. Just show me how _good_ it can feel.” Those words, the look in her eyes, had given him the confidence to continue. 

He’d done exactly as she asked. Thrusting into her, slow and deep, building up a rhythm. Just like now. And just like now, he remembers how good it felt (more than worth the wait), the tightness around him, and the way her muscles had gripped him, clutched at him. 

The memory spurs him on, and he starts to thrust faster, his fingers starting to massage her clit in rhythm with his movements.

John can’t see a damned thing except _blonde_ , but he doesn’t need to. He has Mary’s face burned into his memory. He can clearly remember the expression on it as she’d surrendered to him that first time. Then all those other times, shuffling rapidly behind his eyelids, as he feels the same surrender shuddering through her body right now, right this moment. It’s enough to bring him over the edge, pleasure engulfing and drowning him as he spends himself inside her.

He rolls away the next moment, gasping, wiping sweat from his cheeks with the back of his hand. 

One thing left to do, he reminds himself.

He rolls even further over, opening the night-table drawer a second time. Extracting the bills. She’s already off the bed and starting to dress herself again. John rolls back over and hands her the money, not meeting her eyes.

“Thanks,” she says, tossing her golden hair back over her shoulders. “Same time next week, ‘sweetheart’?”

“Maybe,” John says. “I’ll call you.” Depends on when he gets back from his next hunting trip.

She leaves, the brisk sound of her heels echoing down the hall, followed by the sound of the front door opening and closing behind her. 

John tries not to hate himself too much for what he’s just done. Because he needs this. Needs _something_. 

It’s not what he wants – he’ll never get that back, never have _Mary_ back – but like so many things in his life these days, he’ll take what little is available.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She thinks he’s a cop. He lets her think that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I guess I own the OFC, but I don’t own John. I’d rather own him, however.  
> Beta: Thanks as always to medicinal_mirth. *hugs her*

Christ, I’m in trouble. He’s _gorgeous_.

He said his name is John. Detective John…something. I don’t remember, already. God, I go without good sex for too long, and the first half-manly cop who turns up at my door, I’m putty.

He’s here because April’s friend was murdered. Following the case over from another jurisdiction, he said. I need to keep my mind on his questions. I need to help him out, help him solve the case.

Detective John is busy scribbling notes on a pad as we both sit out on my porch, and I’m busy trying not to notice his eyes, his mouth, the bulk of his shoulders underneath his old leather jacket. Plainclothes cops, they’ll be the death of me.

He’s driving a big black truck, which strikes me as odd, even for a plainclothes cop. But then again, what do _I_ know? I’m just a small-town girl trying to help an officer of the law do his job.

Well, that’s not really true. I moved here eight months ago from the big city. I wanted a little peace and quiet. Didn’t work out like I hoped, though. It’s a little _too_ peaceful and quiet. Not to mention that the men here don’t ‘get’ me….

Don’t go there, I tell myself.

“Can you think of anyone who’d want to hurt Tom?” the detective asks, fixing me with those liquid eyes. Darn. He keeps doing that, I’m going to be getting _liquid_ , myself.

I force my mind to cooperate. “I heard he got in a fight with some of the other locals at a bar a few weeks ago. The bar’s called ‘Midnight’. But that’s not really that unusual – they mix it up there all the time.”

He scribbles again, intently, and I wonder what the stubble on his cheeks might feel like, brushing up the inside of my thigh. I can spot a few stray curls of chest-hair peeking out the top of the vee-neck of his shirt, and I wonder just how furry-chested he is.

Damn it. Will you just _stop_ doing this to yourself?

“Now, I’m going to ask you a bit of an odd question, Ms. Martin,” he says next. I asked him earlier to call me Jen, but I guess that’s too informal for him. But now I’m glad of it. The last thing I need is him saying my name in that smoky purr of his. Talk about fuel for fantasies.

He continues, and I try to focus. “Has anything… _odd_ been happening? Especially around Tom and his family?”

I have no idea what he’s talking about, and this time I don’t think it’s my overactive hormones or imagination that’s responsible. “ _Odd_? What do you mean?”

“It’s hard to be specific,” he says, and I wrench my mind back from considering too closely the word ‘hard’. “Strange occurrences in the family home. Noises, weird electrical events. People ‘seeing things’, even.”

I wrack my brain, but come up with nothing. “No. Not that I can think of. How would that be connected, anyways? You think Tom’s death was an accident? That he electrocuted himself, or something? A gas leak in his place?”

He shakes his head slightly. “I’m not jumping to any conclusions yet, ma’am. Just trying to look at all the possibilities. That’s what I get paid to do.” He gives me a quick grin, and there go my logical thought-processes again. Blindingly white teeth, for God’s sake. I can’t help wondering how those strong white teeth might feel, nibbling gently between my legs-

I lick my suddenly dry lips, and drop my gaze to my lap. The poor guy’s going to arrest me for indecent behaviour if I don’t get control of myself. Although, getting ‘arrested’ by him might not be a bad thing- I try to derail my traitorous thoughts once more.

I’m relieved when he finally gets up. Relieved and disappointed. “Well, thank you for your time, Ms. Martin.”

I rise to my feet as well, and then, before I can stop myself, the words spill out. “Detective…when you catch the person responsible, will you…come and let me know?” God, I’m so lame. My face is burning as I scrabble mentally for a _reason_ , finally coming up with, “I’d just feel safer.”

He smiles again. “It’d be my pleasure, ma’am.” He tips an imaginary hat to me, and walks over and climbs into his truck. Then he’s gone.

Yes, it’s official, I’m an idiot. But my annoyance at myself isn’t enough to keep me from going inside, locking my door, and pouring myself a hot bath. Maybe if I ‘take care of things’ now, I’ll be less likely to pant over him like a bitch in heat if (when) he comes back to tell me the resolution of the case. Assuming there is one.

 

*~*~*

It’s a shapeshifter. I’m sure of it. I sit in the diner booth and go over my notes again, but it’s mostly just habit.

Rash of robberies in the area. Not very hard to do, considering it’s a small town and most people leave their doors unlocked. I’m more interested in _what_ was stolen. A little money, yes, but mostly clothing, jewelery. The local cops think the jewelery was stolen so it could be fenced or pawned, but I suspect otherwise. It’s all part of the trappings a shapeshifter would use. Wear familiar clothes, familiar jewelery, and the victim lets you into their home, lets down their guard.

Not to mention, pets in the areas around each murder had all gone a bit nuts ever since. Dogs reportedly turning vicious or afraid, cats running off and not coming back. Songbirds sitting huddled and silent in their cages, even. The thing’s still in the area, obviously.

Then there’s the deaths themselves. Tom Raines, killed by his girlfriend. While she’d been off seeing a movie with friends, or so she said, despite the physical evidence at the murder scene that suggested otherwise. Another death, Chris Lydon, killed by his brother. Also someone with an alibi, except a neighbour had been _certain_ that he’d seen Chris let his brother into his home, merely an hour before the murder had taken place.

But the final piece had been when I’d found the burial site. A little ways into the forest that presses so closely around this town, the thing had buried its former ‘skins’. Blood and tissue and scraps of cloth. Broken watches, bloodied rings.

It all adds up, and the solution is shapeshifter.

I’m running low on silver bullets, but I think I’ll be OK. There’s no real time to run to Caleb’s for a refill, anyways. It might kill a few more innocent townspeople while I’m off re-stocking. No, I better just use the four or five bullets I have left, and make them count.

Mind made up, I finish my coffee, and pull out a celebratory cigarette. I should give the damn things up, but I figure one cigarette after each successful job is a reasonable ‘reward’. I never did have one after I offed that wendigo half a week ago, so now’s the time.

I give myself a mental break for a little while, too, just letting my mind drift. You can’t be on guard 24/7, it just tires you out. Makes you sloppy, so that when you _do_ need the focus, it doesn’t come. Which’ll just increase the chance that you might get hurt or killed when you’re on a hunt.

So I sit and relax, let myself drift like the smoke rising from the cigarette. I wonder what Dean is doing right now. Or _who_ , for that matter. I wonder how he’s getting on with Sam. They worked well enough as a team under my ‘command’, but on their own?

I think about the last conversation I had with Jim.

I think about Bobby, and whether I dare try to visit him again. Calculating in my head the chances that I’ll end up with an ass full of buckshot.

I think about Jen Martin.

That last one takes me by surprise. Yes, she’s pretty enough. Younger than me, and a redhead, but with all the haircolour products out there these days, Lord only knows if it’s natural. If the drapes match the curtains, so to speak…

God, I sound like Dean. Why did my brain _go_ there? Or my balls, rather? Yeah, I know it’s been awhile. But she’s just some friend of a friend of someone who got themselves killed by the shapeshifter.

OK, maybe she didseem _interested_ , that’s true. You’d have to be dumber than a rock to miss that. But that’s not a good enough reason for me to take advantage of the situation. Yes, I have needs, but I can’t be Dean. I can’t be tumbling every skirt that gives me the eye. Mary’s memory deserves better than that. Yeah, she’d probably understand, after twenty-two years, but it still don’t sit right with me.

Still, I keep thinking about it. About _her_. Long legs. No wedding ring. That red hair. The way her eyes kept looking me up and down when she thought I wasn’t paying attention. I didn’t miss the way her gaze lingered on my mouth, trailed over my arms. Even the way she’d glanced a time or two at my crotch.

OK, yeah, maybe if I wasn’t on a job…and she _did_ ask me to come see her again-

No, I won’t do it. She deserves better than a one-night stand. Even if she thinks that’s what she wants.

Right?

 

*~*~*

I’m down to two silver bullets, but it’s done. Wasn’t even that hard. All I had to do was hide myself at the edge of the clearing and wait for it to come by and shed its latest skin.

It was almost embarrassingly easy. I missed with the first shot, clipping it in the shoulder, but it didn’t have time to recover.

I hate the fact that it killed another person while I was waiting it out, but there’s no help for it. If this thing can look like anyone – and it _can_ – I don’t want to make any mistakes. Shoot some poor innocent by mistake. Not to mention, last thing I’d need is it catching wind of, and then impersonating, me. Although I haven’t gotten the full story from Dean yet, I’m pretty sure that’s why the cops are out looking for him, thinking he’s some kind of serial killer. Well, that can’t be my Dean, so I’ll bet it was one of these things. Bastards. I’ve managed to stay under the cops’ radar for years, myself, so I’d hate to ruin that now.

I uproot all the remains, every last pile of shredded flesh and fabric. I toss them all together with the corpse, and then burn everything.

Job’s done, so it’s time to hit the road.

Except, I find myself driving towards Jen’s home.

Well, I did make a promise to her. Wouldn’t be right to break it. It’s such a small thing anyways. If it gives her peace of mind, what can it hurt?

 

*~*~*

I’ve spent the last week hoping that Detective John will come back. Much as I try not to.

I can’t get him out of my mind. Those eyes with their long, long lashes. That stubble. Those lips. The sheer bulk of him. Heck, even the scar on his cheek. And above all, that velvety voice. Just thinking about it makes me weak in the knees, makes my panties feel damp.

So pathetic. How he’d probably _laugh_ , if he knew.

When the knock at my door does come though, I’m surprised. I’d already convinced myself he’d be way too busy to come and soothe the fears of some damsel in distress. Who wasn’t even in distress. It’s not like the killer came after _me_.

Yes, it’s him, peering at me through the screen. He smiles, and already I’m _lost_. “Ms. Martin. Detective Stone. I just came by to tell you we’ve caught the culprit. You can sleep safely at night again.”

I barely register what he’s saying, other than the fact he’s just reminded me of his last name. ‘Stone’. Yeah, I’ll _bet_ those muscles are hard as stone…

My stomach feels tight and fluttery, and I realize that if I don’t say something, he’s going to do that imaginary hat-tipping thing and be gone before I can blink.

I gather my courage. “So, the case is closed?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I guess that means you’re off-duty right now?” I ask.

He tilts his head, looking at me curiously. “As a matter of fact, I am.”

“Good,” I find myself saying, “Would you care to come in for a drink, then, Detective Stone? I’m sure with all the uproar, you haven’t had much chance to sample the town’s hospitality.” I find myself putting emphasis on the word ‘sample’, and I can feel my cheeks colouring a little. But it’s too late to back down. What’s the worst he can do? Arrest me for ‘over-obvious use of innuendo’?

He seems to hesitate, but then he smiles again. “I’d sure ‘ppreciate that, ma’m.”

“It’s _Jen_ ,” I insist, letting him in and leading him to the kitchen.

He surprises me by opting for homemade lemonade over anything alcoholic, but it’s endearing at the same time.

It’s endearing until I notice the wedding ring. Idiot. So blinded by my own lust, I never bothered to consider whether Detective Stone was even available. “So, you’re married, then,” I say, my voice weak. I can be so stupid sometimes.

He uncurls his hand from around the glass, looking at the ring. “Yes and no. I _was_ married. But she died.”

“I’m sorry,” I say. Hating myself for the hope I suddenly feel. Does that make me a terrible person?

“It was a long time ago,” he says. “But I still wear the ring. It’s my way of remembering her, I guess.” He shrugs, his eyes meeting mine.

“And no girlfriend, either?” I find myself asking.

He’s starting to look vaguely amused, and I kick myself mentally for being so damned obvious again, but he just shakes his head.

“You?” he asks casually, and it takes me a few moments to realize what he’s after.

“Never married,” I say. “No boyfriends for awhile, either,” I add. 

“Why’s that?” he asks, leaning back in his chair. His eyes are focused on me, I’m the centre of his undivided attention, and it makes me feel nervous. Excited.

I realize abruptly that this could be my ‘in’. “I’m a little too… _sophisticated_ in my tastes, I guess.”

He raises an eyebrow, smirking faintly. God, those _dimples_.“’Sophisticated’,” he repeats.

“Well…maybe….‘kinky’ would be a better word.” My cheeks feel like they’re on fire, damn it.

He’s _definitely_ smirking now. “Nothin’ wrong with that, Jen.”

I think it’s the first time he’s said my name. In that sexy drawl of his. I nearly swoon.

I struggle to keep things light, humorous. Lessen some of the tension, before I turn into a gibbering lunatic and scare him right off. “You wouldn’t know that, based on my exes’ reactions. Like a little role-playing ever hurt anyone.” I shake my head.

I’ve got his attention, all right. He gives me another heavy-lidded look, then takes a long draught of lemonade. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, and I want to walk over and lick it. But of course I don’t.

“Role-playing, huh?” he asks, licking his lips, and my train of thought is almost completely derailed again, but I manage to keep on.

“Yes. For example, you’re a cop, right? Well, I’ve often fantasized about having sex with a cop. You know, the typical scene.”

“No, I don’t,” he says. I don’t think it’s my imagination that his voice is getting lower. Smokier, if that’s even possible.

“Well, something like getting pulled over for speeding on some isolated road. And then offering to have sex with the cop if he’ll let me out of the ticket.” I should feel embarrassed, but he’s still here. Watching me like he’s fascinated, hanging on every word. It somehow makes me bolder, enough to add, “Or maybe he just stops me and orders me out of the car. Handcuffs me, tells me he needs to ‘search’ me for drugs. That kind of thing…”

He’s grinning at me now, lazily. “ _Kinky_ ’s a good word for that, yes. But I feel sorry for all those scaredy-cat ex-boyfriends of yours. Don’t know what they’re missin’.”

I don’t know what to say in return, so I stay silent. I’ve already put all my cards out on the table.

He finishes his lemonade in a few more quick gulps, then seems to come to a decision as he’s putting the glass down.

Suddenly paranoid, I brace myself for an actual arrest. Is propositioning a cop a misdemeanour or a felony, I wonder?

Instead, he says: “So, let’s say you were to – hypothetically, y’understand – have an actual cop at your disposal right now. Which road would be best to carry out this little role-play on? How would you want to do this?” He’s watching me, smirking. _Waiting_.

He took the bait. Part of me doesn’t believe it, and the rest of me is scrambling to try to capitalize on this, before either of us changes their mind.

There’s an unused dirt road about twenty minutes out of town, and I describe to him how to get there, trying to keep my hands from shaking and my thighs from quivering. Yeah, good luck with that.

“And you want – _hypothetically,_ of course - to be pulled over for speeding,” he checks, after he makes sure he has the directions correct.

“Yes,” I say.

“And then the ‘real’ playing would begin.”

“Yes.”

He nods. “D’you have a safeword?” he asks, and I’m impressed. He’s been around the block a time or two.

“Banana,” I say.

“Fair ‘nough. Next order of business – protection?”

“I’ve got some condoms upstairs. In my bedroom.”

He nods again, calmly, as if we’re having a normal conversation. I’m ready to spontaneously combust, and he looks like he’s doing nothing more naughty than discussing the weather with a witness.

“Go and get them,” he says, still casual, but I do just that. I can feel his eyes burning intently into me as I get up and cross the room, and it feels good. Dangerous, but in a _good_ way.

I get the condoms and come back. He holds his hand out for them, and our fingers brush as I put them into his palm. For a moment, I realize how utterly _insane_ this is. We don’t know each other, that brief contact of our fingers is the first time we’ve even touched, and yet I’m about to lead him to an isolated stretch of road and let him – let’s be honest – fuck me. But also, honestly? I don’t care. I trust him, somehow. He’s not going to hurt me. Maybe it’s the fact he’s a cop. Maybe it’s the gentle look in his eyes. Maybe it’s the way he cares enough to ask about safewords, and protection….

“One more thing,” he says, looking up at me from his chair. “This can’t be a regular thing. It’s a one-shot deal only. I want you to know that, going in. I don’t want anyone getting hurt. So if you’re OK with that, we’ll go ahead. But if you think you’ll want more than that, I have to say no.”

Yeah, I figured. Doesn’t matter. I _want_ this. I tell him as much.

“OK.” He finally gets up, stuffing the condoms into his jacket pocket, and then leads the way out. I get into my car, and he leans into the window. “I’ll give you about five or six minutes’ head-start, Jen.” There’s my name again, the sound of it low and silky and rough, and I have to press my thighs together.

“Yes, Detective,” I say, and he smirks again.

“Better make it ‘Officer’,” he reminds me. And then he grins and backs up, leaving me a clear path to get this little adventure started.

 

*~*~*

Somehow, I make it to the road. How I manage to get there without having an accident is beyond me. I’m sure the seat underneath me is soaked, I can feel my nipples straining against my bra, and my hands are sweaty where they grip the wheel.

I keep checking the rearview mirror for John’s truck, but it’s not there. I slow down a bit. I’m actually _not_ speeding, but I never said I had to be.

I squirm a bit in my seat, goosebumps rising on my arms. I feel nervous and thrilled and scared and excited, all at once, as I wonder what exactly he’s going to do with me – _to_ me - when he ‘catches’ me.

Finally, I look in the mirror, and there’s the truck, John behind the wheel. There’s no siren, but there _is_ a flashing red light on the dash.

I pull over, relieved and more anxious at the same time. What if he comes over and tells me he’s changed his mind? Or that I’m insane? What if he actually arrests me?

My knuckles are white around the steering wheel, and I have to force myself to relax. John materializes at my window, frowning in at me.

“D’you know how fast you were going, ma’am?”

I dare to look up at him. His face is hard, unforgiving. He’s having no trouble with this role at all. But his eyes are soft, warm. It makes me feel better. A _bit_.

“I’m- I’m sorry, Officer,” I stammer. I don’t have to fake the nervousness.

“License and registration, please,” he says, putting his hands on his hips. His jacket pulls off to the side, and I see the gun in his belt. It makes me even more anxious for a moment, before I realize how childish I’m being. He’s a cop, for God’s sake, of _course_ he’d have a gun.

I fumble in my glove compartment until I find the registration, handing it and my license over. He studies each of them in turn carefully, even going so far as to study my driver’s license photo and then look critically at me. Boy, he’s good at this. Then again, it’s not exactly a ‘fantasy’ to him.

“Would you get out of the car, please?” he says. He steps back a pace or two.

Now or never. I take a deep breath, still struggling to control the shaking of my hands, and I open the car door and climb out. “Is there a problem, Officer?” I say, remembering the unwritten script for this kind of situation.

He doesn’t answer, just closes my car door and pockets my cards – a different pocket from the one I saw him put the condoms in earlier, I notice – and squares his shoulders. “Please turn and face the car, ma’am.”

This is it, I tell myself. It’s really happening. John’s not going to bail. And I’m going to be completely at the mercy of someone I barely know. Vulnerable and _wet_ and-

My legs feel leaden, but I do as he says.

He edges up behind me, that voice in my ear. “Hands behind your back.” Funny, his voice alone is enough to soothe me. I feel better again. Like the owner of that voice could never hurt me.

I put my hands behind my back, and cold metal caresses them, slides around them. There’s a click, and that’s it. He’s _got_ me.

He doesn’t give me any time to reflect on that fact. “You carryin’ any drugs, ma’am?”

I manage to find my voice. “No! Absolutely not! What _is_ this?”

He chuckles in my ear, and it’s deliciously evil. “I think you’re lying, Ms. Jennifer Angela Martin. But that’s all right, it’s easily fixed. I’ll just have to _strip_ -search you.”

My mouth goes dry. He’s going to put his hands on me. All over me. Oh, God.

He moves closer, pressing himself against my back. He’s so solid, so _warm_. So turned on. I can feel him, feel his arousal, pressing hard against me. When he nudges me gently forward so that I’m leaning a bit over the hood of the car, I don’t mind. It’ll help keep me from spilling into a boneless heap on the dirt, if my knees actually do give way.

John reaches around me, starting to undo the buttons of my shirt. It’s relatively warm, for an early evening in autumn, but I’m still very aware of the touch of air across my bare skin. Is he going to get me completely naked? I look nervously around, but I picked the road well. Nobody comes out here any more. There’s no one around to see us like this.

He pulls my shirt off and down my arms, down to where my wrists are cuffed together. Then he makes good on the ‘search’ part of his task, fingers sliding over my skin, exploring. They follow the hollow of my throat, press teasingly into the curves of my collarbones, slip over my still-covered breasts to span over my belly, brushing over my belly button. My skin prickles at his light touches, and I push my ass back against him, groaning.

“I’m afraid I’m not satisfied, Ms. Martin,” he purrs directly into my ear. My bra is undone, and then lifted over my head and allowed to tangle with my shirt around my wrists. Warm hands cup me, callused palms graze across my nipples, and then he tweaks each one, lightly. Christ, he’s going to _kill_ me with all this teasing.

He pulls away, and I miss the heat of him, pressed against me. Until he reaches around in search of the button-fly of my jeans. He finds it, slowly popping each button open, and I squirm. “Please, Officer,” I beg, “Don’t _do_ this.” Hell, I’m a lousy actress. Anyone hearing that breathy note in my voice will know instantly that what I really mean is: God, yes, _more_.

He pulls the jeans down over my hips, my legs. He gets them off over my shoes and then tosses them through the car’s open window. But he’s left my panties in place. He’s not done teasing me, apparently. Evil, evil man. I almost grin and spoil the illusion.

“Spread ‘em, Ms. Martin,” he orders, and I comply. There’s a shift and then he’s kneeling behind me, running slow fingers up my legs, pushing my thighs even further apart with his hands. I wonder if he notices the wet spot on my panties, if he can _smell_ how badly I want him.

He skims his fingers over my panties, and I can’t help twisting a little, trying to push myself against his hand. I feel like I’m on fire, and he’s the only one who can put it out.

He gets up again and leans in, clucking disapprovingly in my ear. “I’m sorry, Ms. Martin, but I’m still convinced that you’re hiding something from me. I’ll have to do a _body cavity_ search.”

I wet my lips, grateful again for the stable bulk of the car’s hood under my hips. “I have nothing to hide,” I retort, trying a different tack. Yeah, I’m not going to be hiding _anything_ from Detective John for much longer.

“No? Well, we’ll just see about that.” He pulls my panties down and off, and cool air caresses me, my heat, my _wet_. Have I ever been so hot for someone before?

His hand brushes over my clit and I gasp at the sweet shocks coursing through me. His arm wraps firmly around my waist, and his body presses against my side, holding me fast as he slides two inquisitive fingers inside me.

I lose it completely. “Oh, God. Oh, _John_.” Without thinking I turn my head towards him, his stubbled chin rasping harshly across my forehead as I do so. But I relish the sting. Everything is pleasure, with the way his fingers are massaging their way deep into me.

“Easy, Jen,” he murmurs, “Sssshhh.”

His hand is unrelenting, though. Pushing into me, teasing every inch of the way, and I shudder helplessly. When he pulls his fingers out, slick with my juices, and transfers his attention to my clit, massaging me in maddening circles, I sink my teeth into his jacket and come all over his hand, shaking like someone’s electrocuting me.

I slump over the hood of the car as he lets me go. He moves away, and for a moment I have no idea what he’s doing or where he’s going, but I’m too far gone to care. Until his hands slide around my hips again, then pin me securely in place. And I whimper, because it’s his tongue I feel on me now, licking sloppy circles around the entrance to my body, greedy and eager.

He’s swallowing every last drop, or so it seems. Like he can’t get enough. Like he’s a thirsty man in the desert. Maybe he _is_. No wife, no girlfriend. How long has it been for him?

By the time he finishes licking me clean, I’m ready for more. He kisses my thigh, stubble rough on my skin, and I remember something else I wondered about, when I first met him. Do I dare ask for what I want?

Then again, that’s how I got him to come out here with me in the first place, isn’t it?

“Joh- Officer,” I croak. God, I could use some water right now. I swallow, trying again. “I want to feel your teeth on me. Gently,” I add.

“Where?” he asks, and I have to swallow again.

“Ev-everywhere. Between my legs. On my…” I clear my throat, my cheeks on fire again, though he can’t see me blushing from his current angle, thank God. Though I don’t know why I care. I’m completely exposed, my thighs stretched wide apart, my _folds_ open wide, and he can see pretty much everything I have. Flaming cheeks should be the least of my embarrassment. “My clit,” I manage to finish.

He chuckles, low and dark, then runs his tongue wetly up the back of my thigh. “I don’t know if you’re in a position to make demands, ma’am. You have the right to remain silent, and the right to an attorney…but the right to give _me_ orders? I’ll have to check the rule-book on that one. Might even count as ‘resisting arrest’.”

Lord, he’s _evil_. “Please,” I beg shamelessly. It’s _way_ too late for modesty, isn’t it? “Please, Officer-“

He nips gently at my inner thigh, and I jump and gasp. I groan helplessly as he continues, leaving a trail of soft bites up the back of one thigh, before he switches and starts all over on my other thigh.

I’m ready to scream in frustration by the time he ventures over to where I really want him, teeth grazing carefully against me, nibbling lightly at sensitive folds of skin. I squirm and press back against his mouth. “John,” I say again, breathlessly.

His teeth find my clit, pressing on either side of it, holding it captive so he can run his tongue across the swollen spot, over and over, and my hips buck helplessly. He’s too good at this.

I’m getting close to the edge again, but I don’t mind too much when he stops. I’ve had one orgasm already, he hasn’t. Time to even the score.

He gets up and pulls me around to face him, kissing me, and I can taste myself on those sexy lips, on his stubble. I want to lick the residue of myself out of those dimples. He smells like me, too, and it makes my knees want to buckle all over again.

“John,” I rasp. “I want to- I need to- Let me do something for you, please.” I stagger-step back and give his crotch a long, meaningful stare as I deliberately lick my lips. Screw the role-playing. I want to open his pants, see what he’s got for me.

He smirks. He gets it. “Just a sec.” He turns me around, and I feel him opening the handcuffs. He pulls my shirt and bra off from around my wrists, tossing them also through the window of my car and onto the passenger seat. There’s a pause. “D’you want these back on?” he asks from behind me.

Why not? I feel safe with him. If he was planning to hurt me, he would’ve done it already. “Yes.” The metal rings slide closed around my wrists again.

I turn back, to see his brow all furrowed up. It’s awfully cute. “What?”

“Just workin’ out the logistics, darlin’,” he says, casting a critical eye at the road underneath us. I can tell he doesn’t want me on my knees in the dirt.

I know what to do. “My car,” I say. “Open the driver’s side door for me.”

“Yes ma’am.”

I get into the car, kneeling on the driver’s seat, facing out. Yes, this’ll do.

“Now get over here, and unzip yourself for me,” I order.

“Funny, thought _I_ was the one in charge here,” John grins. But he moves towards me, undoing his jeans.

He’s got a such pretty cock, I think, as I lean forward to take him into my mouth.

He tastes good, too. Salty and hot, his musk filling my nose. Every sense consumed by him. His hands are in my hair, on my face, touching me, supporting me. I look up, and he’s watching me, smiling, biting his lower lip as I take him in deeper and deeper.

Just knowing he’s _watching_ me makes me want to tease, to put on a show that he’s not likely to forget for awhile. I let my tongue play around the swollen head, looking up at him the whole time. I lick the underside of his shaft, following the straining veins. I shift closer and burrow my head underneath, lapping at the soft, lightly furred skin of his balls.

“Christ, Jen,” he says, a rumbling moan, and the sound of it spurs me on, urges me to take him back into my mouth, sucking hard on him.

I almost let him come down my throat, despite the risk, but he’s too responsible for that, pushing me away with a low growl when he’s moments from coming.

He’s even more gorgeous this way, his face sweaty and flushed and his eyes smouldering with passion and need, his erection almost visibly pulsing.

John gets rid of the jacket and unbuttons his shirt with clumsy hands, obviously trying to cool off, buy himself some time. I don’t mind, because I get to appreciate the view. Lightly furred chest, just as I suspected, dark pink nipples that I want to run my tongue around and around and around…

He doesn’t give me the chance, though. He reaches in and tugs me out of the car, bringing me back to the car’s hood so he can bend me over it.

I glance back over my shoulder, and see that he’s holding his jacket, digging into the pocket for a condom. I wriggle impatiently while he gets it onto himself.

“What, your ‘body cavity search’ earlier wasn’t extensive enough, Officer?” I enquire sweetly.

“No,” he rumbles, moving against me, his thighs brushing against mine, bare skin to bare skin. “In cases like this, I have a special _instrument_ I must use.”

I’m about to laugh, but it turns into a groan instead as he pushes inside me.

Oh God. So _good_. I feel filled completely, every time he thrusts into me. And there’s his arm, wrapped around my hips, so he doesn’t slam me into the unyielding metal of the car at the end of every forceful thrust.

I keep saying his name over and over, in between noises that I’d be embarrassed about if I wasn’t nearly out of my mind from the pleasure. Not to mention the noises _he_ ’s making, little groans and growls, the feel of his rapid breaths burning against my shoulder.

I’m right on the edge a final time when he gets sneaky, his palm finding my clit and rubbing roughly across it. That’s it for me, I’m gone. Everything shuts down while the sweet pressure and heat takes me over. Vaguely, I’m aware of him climaxing, of the pulses of him inside me as he comes. When he leans against me, panting, I savour the warmth and weight of him on me.

Wow. That’s the best sex I’ve had….ever. I’ll be remembering this one for awhile, that’s for sure. Maybe small towns aren’t so bad after all. Could I have played out this little scene in a crowded downtown core? Unlikely.

John lets me up, both of us grinning at the sweaty imprint my body has left in the dust on the car’s hood. I look down at myself. Oops. Looks like I’m due for a bath when I get home.

He undoes the handcuffs, tossing them dismissively into my car. He pulls me into his arms and kisses me deeply one last time. “Thanks, Jen,” he says. “I _needed_ that.”

“I think I did, too,” I say to him.

I suppose I should feel something, now that it’s over. He’s going to leave, after all.

But I just feel _good_ , so I do my best to hang on to that feeling as we get dressed, and dispose of all the evidence of our encounter.

He gives me back my license and registration, and tells me to drive home first, saying he’ll meet me there shortly. Except it’s a lie. He’s trying to make this an easy parting. Pretending that we’ll say goodbye later, in a safer place. Except I know we won’t, I can see the lie in his face, his eyes. But that’s OK, it’s better this way. No awkward silences, no tearful goodbyes, no regrets. Just two people who met and shared something special.

It doesn’t have to be anything more or less than that.

By the time I get home, still riding the high, I realize that at least he left me a souvenir. The handcuffs are still on my passenger seat, and they gleam at me, a reminder that sometimes taking a risk pays off.

 

*~*~*

The feeling stays with me, even as I drive down darkened roads, finally reaching some two-bit town with a motel I can crash in for a day or two before I start hunting for any sign of the Demon. Failing that, it’s onto another job, and once that’s done, checking for demon-sign once more. Lather, rinse, repeat.

But yeah, the feeling’s still there. A _good_ feeling. It’s not the first time I’ve been with a woman since Mary passed, and it won’t be the last. But still, this one was different.

I’m still not sure what caused my resolve to shatter. I’d gone to see her, telling myself the whole time that I was _not_ going to sleep with her. That it hadn’t been _that_ long.

Maybe it was the way she’d sprung the whole thing on me. The whole cop role-playing thing. It sounded fun. Way more fun than just picking up some nearly anonymous woman at a roadhouse and screwing-by-the-numbers, if you will, back at my motel room.

And Hell, I deserve some fun _sometimes_ , don’t I? A single, solitary cigarette after a job well done is pretty cold comfort, actually.

But yeah, she’d managed to seduce me, for a change. And she’d known it would only be a one-time thing, so no reason to feel guilt on that score. I’d have been making _more_ of a liar of myself if I’d decided otherwise at the end. Tempting as that was.

So I lie in bed alone, staring at the ceiling as a thought occurs to me. We’d engaged in role-playing, yes. Except, it had been a _double_ role-play, hadn’t it. I’m not exactly an officer of the law.

Although, I suppose in a way, I am. Just an officer of a _higher_ law than the usual one.

I roll over and close my eyes, trying to get some sleep. Smirking a little to myself as a final thought drifts through my mind.

The drapes _did_ match the curtains.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John comes home from the war, and Mary has a special ‘surprise’ for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own John or Mary. That would make me a slave trader, and that’s just wrong.  
> Beta: Thanks to mikki13!

It starts with the letters, which have become the highlight of his day.

Blood and screams, death and cordite, but he gets to end every day in the barracks, a flashlight in his hand and the covers over his head as he reads the letters Mary sends him. As he writes letters to send back to her.

Some of it breaks his heart, even though he knows she understands why he had to come to Nam. Still, it pains him. _I miss you. I can’t wait for you to come home_ , the letters curl out across the page, penned in her pretty cursive writing.

They’re not easy to read, but it’s all he has of Mary. So he reads the letters, despite the guilt and the homesickness. It’s as much penance as need.

Until things change. It all starts with the following phrase, in fact. _I never want you to leave again_ , she writes. _I know_ , _Mary,_ he writes back. It’s just like nearly every other letter she’s sent, and every other letter he’s sent back.

Then it comes: _If you even try to leave again,_ she writes back next time, _I’ll_ stop _you_. It makes him chuckle quietly behind his hand. Mary’s a strong woman, but physically his equal, she ain’t. The mental image of her even trying to restrain him makes him chuckle again.

But he likes the lighthearted tone, and he can’t resist teasing her. _Oh yeah, darling?_ How _are you going to stop me?_ It sounds like a dare to him when he rereads it, and he’s interested to see the response.

Right after sending it, however, he feels like the world’s biggest asshole. Mary’s back home, missing him, not knowing if he’ll make it home alive or in a plain pine box, and he’s trying to make light of it? _You’re so fucking stupid sometimes, Corporal,_ he berates himself.

John debates writing another letter immediately, apologizing. Then all Hell breaks loose, and he’s got other worries, like keeping himself and his men alive.

When there’s finally a lull in the violence, that’s when Mary’s return letter comes. Heart in his throat, he tears it open.

What he reads next startles and warms him. She’s not angry, or sad, or offended. Instead, her response to his dare is: _I guess_ _I’ll have no choice but to tie you to the bed, John_.

It doesn’t just make him laugh. It also makes him momentarily forget that they lost Shoals, Ortiz, and Smitty in the last attack.

It _intrigues_ him, too. Enough to make him continue the game.

_Tie me to the bed, huh?_ He writes back. _And what’ll you do with me when you_ have _me, Mary?_

The next few letters are exciting and agonizing at the same time. She won’t give too much in the way of details, and he doesn’t know if it’s shyness or coyness, but it gives him a respite either way. A chance to detach himself from the horror that surrounds him.

Until the day finally comes, when he steps off the ship and sets foot back on his home soil. When Mary comes running towards him and throws her arms around him, nearly knocking him down despite the fact she weighs half of what he does, and her tears leave little dark circles on his dress uniform.

That’s when it starts to _really_ sink in - He’s made it. He’s home, he’s alive, and he’s relatively uninjured. Mary kisses him, her lips wet with his tears and hers, and she traces light fingertips down the angry red scar on his cheek. “You didn’t tell me about this,” she says.

“I didn’t want to worry you any more than you already were,” he tells her. “Does it bother you?” He can’t help asking.

“No. It’s like…a badge of courage,” she tells him, caressing it, and he’s more relieved than he expected.

He puts his arm around her and picks up his battered old duffle bag, then begins to lead her away.

He’s _home_.

His Impala is waiting for them in the parking lot, gleaming. John doesn’t realize how much he missed it until he’s sliding behind the wheel. “You sure it’s safe to let me drive?” he jokes. “I haven’t done the ‘civvie’ thing for awhile.”

“Yes. But let’s put on our seatbelts, just in case,” she says, smiling indulgently.

She moved to a new apartment while he was in Nam. It’s a nice place, cozy. He wonders idly if he should sell his own place and move into hers, but then he decides not to jump the gun. He’s only been home a few _hours_ , after all. It might be a good idea to maintain their own spaces for awhile, until he settles down and they get familiar with each other again.

Mary gives him a quick tour of the place – a nice, large double bed, he can’t help noticing – and then she steers them both to the kitchen, so they can talk while she makes dinner.

It’s less awkward than he expected. He anticipated lots of questions about the war, about how it felt, about the things he _saw_ , but instead she seems happy to answer his questions about everything he’s missed. News events, local gossip, Mary’s search for this very apartment, and so on.

Dinner is delicious. “Especially compared to rations,” he jokes with her, but the truth is that it’s delicious anyways. Not for the first time, he thinks about asking her to marry him. Once again, he tells himself not to jump the gun. Plenty of time for that.

He goes to the head – the _bathroom_ , rather (he’s got to start thinking and talking like a civvy again) – and is startled by his own face in the mirror. It’s the first time he’s really looked at himself in a long time, and he sees lines he didn’t have when he last left U.S. soil, never mind that shiny red scar. His eyes look older, almost haunted. “You grew up fast out there, Corporal,” he says to his own reflection. But then again, he knows that’s partially why he went out there. To find himself, as much as for other reasons.

Mary’s already sitting on the couch watching TV when he comes back out. “Want help with the dishes?” he asks her.

“Later,” she replies. “Come join me,” she holds out a slender hand to him, and he doesn’t resist the invitation.

He’d almost forgotten how wonderful it felt to do this. A soft, warm body pressed against his side, arms looped around him.

Mary’s head is on his chest and he can smell her hair, a faint scent of flowers. His hand moves to stroke the soft strands, a reflex that feels rusty at first after so much time apart, but quickly begins to feel normal again.

She snaps off the TV an hour later. “Time to pay the piper?” John asks lazily, inclining his head towards the kitchen and the sink full of dishes.

“No,” she says, “I’ve got a surprise for you. But I have to blindfold you, first.” A secret smile spreads slowly across her face, and John wonders what she’s up to.

He’s game to find out, too. “OK, lady,” he says. He sits patiently on the couch, drumming his fingers restlessly on his knees, while she goes off somewhere. She comes back with a soft length of silken scarf, and he can’t help smirking while she wraps it around his eyes.

Darkness is a strange thing. Sometimes it’s the enemy, when you’re in the dark and there are Viet Cong all around you, hunting for American blood to spill. Sometimes it’s a friend, when you’re sneaking up on an enemy position. But here - in this darkness behind the blindfold, with Mary in her apartment - it’s a new kind of darkness for him. It feels _safe_.

Cool fingers wrap around his hand and tug, and he follows their lead. He lets her guide him slowly into another room, eventually turning him and gently pushing until he sits on the edge of something firm and soft at the same time. _Her bed_ , he realizes.

He grins. He expects to be greeted by the sight of Mary in lingerie when she pulls off the blindfold. Or maybe just Mary naked. He’s already hardening in his dress uniform, just thinking about it. It’s been a long time, and no, his hand _doesn’t_ count.

But she says nothing, and she doesn’t remove the blindfold. Instead, he feels her hands working on the buttons of his uniform shirt. When he tries to help her, she bats his hands away, so he just sits and smirks expectantly, and lets her strip him down to the waist. She touches him, too, running familiar-yet-unfamiliar hands over his skin. Her hands are gentle, lingering over the wounds he didn’t have the last time she saw him.

He waits for her to ask about each one, but she doesn’t. She just caresses him, leaning so closely over him that he can feel her warm breath slipping across his ear. He tries again to touch her, but she takes his wrists and pushes them firmly back down by his sides. “No, John,” she whispers into his ear. “Lie back on the bed.”

It’s an order, and not like any orders he’s had to take before. Not from her, that’s for sure, but not from his superiors either.

He’s frustrated but curious, so he obeys. He lies back and moves around until he can rest his head on the pillows.

Still blinded, still in darkness, John feels it when she climbs up on the bed, straddling either side of his hips. She leans over him and no, she’s still dressed. Fabric against his chest, and the soft press of each breast, and he can’t help bucking his hips a little, pushing up against her, fists clenching at his sides from how badly he wants to touch her. _Take_ her. He’s dreamed about being with her, spent all those nights in the darkness and blood, longing for her, and now that he’s here with her…

Lips brush against his, but it’s so light and quick he barely has time to pucker up in return. “Mary,” he growls, and is it an order of his own, a plea, a supplication? He wants to tear the blindfold off, grab her and roll them both over, pin her underneath him and use his hands to find out whether she wants him as badly as he does her. To find out whether she’ll squirm the way he remembers, when he pushes his fingers deep inside her.

He doesn’t do any of those things, however. She’s running the show, and he’s used to taking orders. Besides, he’s still curious.

But he lets her know he’s displeased. “You’re going to _kill_ me, woman.”

She laughs softly. “Big, strong man like you? I doubt it.” She shifts, wriggling a little against him, and he clenches his teeth and growls again. _Goddamn it, Mary, you’re such a tease…God, I love you._

He feels the pillows on either side of him indenting as she leans her weight on her hands. “Raise your arms above your head, John.”

He can’t think, not with her soft weight leaning against him, the much beloved scent of her skin, her hair, her perfume surrounding him for the first time in so long, so he doesn’t hesitate. He raises his arms, and her hands wrap around his wrists and guide them back against the headboard.

Reason reasserts itself suddenly, when the cold metal locks around each wrist. She’s handcuffed him to her bed. “Mary, what the _Hell_ are you-?”

Another soft laugh above him. “I _told_ you, John, that I’d tie you to the bed to stop you from leaving again.”

He tugs at the cuffs, but they’re secure. For a moment, he flashes back to the jungle, the blood and the darkness and the stench of death, and he almost panics, that helplessness something he never wants to feel again.

But her lips bring him back. She’s kissing him, pushing her tongue into his mouth, aggressive in a way she’s never been before, and John has no choice but to let himself be kissed, let her tongue slide into his mouth. The ache in his dress pants intensifies, but he’s starting to think that perhaps being helpless isn’t always bad.

Mary’s mouth leaves his to move to his chin, licking across the 5 o’clock-shadow that’s already sprouted, and then her tongue teases its way down his neck. He tilts his head back to give her more access, groaning. He can’t see, he can’t touch her. But he can _feel_ her, feel everything as if it’s the first time anyone’s touched him this way, and it’s exquisite.

Hands cup him, squeezing his hard pectoral muscles, and then her mouth suckles wetly at each of his nipples, leaving him to buck his hips up reflexively into her body again. “Mary,” he says, and this time it _is_ a plea.

“Ssssssh,” she soothes in a silky tone. “I told you, John, that I was going to take my time with you, when I had you all to myself. I made you a promise. And I like to keep my promises.”

He groans in supplication, but she’s relentless. Her hands slide up his arms, testing the feel of his hardened muscles, teeth now nipping gently at his nipples. Then she’s sliding down his body, tongue following the dark trail of hair down his belly, to the waistband of his pants.

She strips him completely, and (impatient now), he twists and shifts to help her as best he can. He doesn’t think he’s ever been so _hard_ , so needy, in his life. When her mouth returns, teeth now nibbling gently at the inside of his thigh, ignoring his rampant erection, he thinks he might just lose it.

“Goddamn it, Mary!” he yells in frustration. Cool fingers move onto his face, his lips, and she’s shushing him again. “Tell me what you want, John,” she encourages quietly.

_Take the blindfold off, so I can_ see _you. Let my hands go_ , _so I can pin you to the bed and fuck you._ But instead, what comes out of his mouth is even more primal. “Want to be inside you,” he rasps.

“I can help with that,” comes the amused response. And then – oh _God_ – her mouth takes him in, wetness and warmth bathing his shaft, cool fingers gently stroking along his balls.

His whole body is coated in sweat, straining underneath her. Everything in his mind and body focused on her, focused on the building sweetness, every motion of her tongue and lips and fingers dragging him willingly to the edge.

He shouts her name when he comes, pleasure searing through him in pulses, much better than any quiet orgasm he dared to give himself with his hand in the darkness of the barracks. Her mouth slips off of him, pressing a final kiss against the softening flesh, and then she’s snuggled against his side, hands stroking his chest and his face.

It takes him a moment to realize the wetness on his cheeks is more than sweat. “I’m here,” Mary whispers, her lips brushing his tears away. “I’m here, baby.”

John Winchester’s daddy might not have approved, if he’d still been alive, but John doesn’t care. All that fighting, so many lives _lost_ , and he’s never allowed himself to cry for any of them. It’s safe here, though, with only Mary to watch him coming undone. He buries his head in her shoulder, surrounded by the curtain of her hair, and lets himself grieve for them.

The scarf is sodden when she pulls it carefully from his eyes, cradling his face in her palms and kissing him again.

John feels better, _cleaner_ , than he has in a very long while. He hasn’t reached the bottom of his grief yet, not even close, but he’ll let the rest go for now. Right now, he’s relaxed and sated and calm. He can see Mary again, see that she’s wearing some kind of long nightgown. But it’s flimsy, showing off every supple curve, and already, he’s hungry for more of her.

He licks his lips. “Quite the homecoming, baby doll,” he quips, eyeing her.

She chuckles huskily. “Who said it was over yet?” She gets off the bed and pulls the straps of the nightgown off her shoulders, letting it slide down her white skin and puddle around her feet.

“I’m not complaining,” he says, raking her with his eyes. It’s the first time he’s seen her naked – seen any woman naked, come to think of it – since he left to go to war. He never was much for the porn magazines the other men passed around in the barracks. Not when he had the real thing waiting for him back home.

She kneels on the bed beside him, and his hands twitch against the confining cuffs. God, he wants to touch her so badly. He licks his lips again, “Mary…let me out of these.”

She shakes her head, smirking. “Now, why would I want to do _that_?” she teases.

“So I can shove my tongue into you and make you _come_ ,” he rasps. It’s not subtle, but he has an excuse. Desperate times, desperate measures, and all of that.

“You can still do that. I’ll even help you, John.” She’s shifting then, turning to face his feet. Then sliding back, her legs slipping under his shoulders, his bound arms, so she can kneel and lower herself until her curls brush against his lips. “Is that what you want, love?”

He growls low in his throat. She smells as sweet as he remembers, every delicate fold of glistening skin _exactly_ as he remembers, as he has fantasized about. He tilts his head, lapping at the tender entrance to her body, then pushing his tongue in hard.

She shudders a little, a gasp coming from her, and he pushes his tongue in still deeper. Salty and hot, slippery wet, and he doesn’t think it’s going to take long at all before he’s sporting another hard-on. Not with this good a view.

He slips his tongue out of her and works it slowly up between her folds. Somehow, luckily, it’s a bit like riding a bike. He remembers what she likes and how she likes it, and he gives it to her. Nibbling gently at her lush outer lips, sucking firmly on the long, slender folds between them. Rubbing his tongue wetly across the pulsing bead of her clit, then pressing gently around it with his teeth, before sucking hard at sensitive nerves.

Mary’s starting to really squirm, her juices smearing across his mouth, and it’s all so sensual. He can’t remember whatever possessed him to leave her, leave _this_.

She shifts, pressing herself harder against his tongue, and his hands curl into fists. He wants so badly to get inside her. To push two or even three fingers into the slick softness and feel her muscles quivering around him. To curl his fingers inside her and coax a toe-curling climax out of her while he gives her clit a well-deserved tongue-lashing.

But he can’t. And truth be told, even in spite of the frustration, he’s liking this. He doesn’t have to give orders, or make decisions. He gets to lie here and taste her, enjoy every scent and flavour and sound and the view, to focus on her. It’s more freeing than he would’ve predicted.

Her legs tighten around him and he starts to wonder if maybe she can get off just from riding his tongue, but then she takes his reawakened erection deep into her mouth again, and he’s got enough to do just remembering how to stroke the flat of his tongue over her while she distracts him with long wet strokes of her own tongue along his length.

He loses track of time – there’s only Mary, only her sweetness filling his senses, only her mouth taking him in – but he’s sure he’s going to come again. Certain of it. She’s alternating sucking on just the head, with occasional gentle nibbles around the rest of his length, and he retaliates by using his own teeth carefully on her swollen clit, sometimes swiping his tongue hard the length of her folds.

Until she lets him go and climbs off of him, with a suddenness that shocks him. “You _are_ going to kill me, woman,” he groans.

“Hush, John,” she says. Her cheeks and her chest are flushed and red, sweat glimmering in the bedroom lights, and she’s breathing hard. She strokes her fingertips down his face, and he turns his head, kissing her fingers.

He tries another tack. Seduce her into giving him what they both want. “I’ve come already, you haven’t. Let me-“

“Plenty of time for that, John,” she says, wagging her finger at him, smiling mischievously. “Besides, I just remembered – I forgot to serve ‘dessert’! I’ll be right back.”

His pained, frustrated groan doesn’t stop her from leaving the bedroom. He yanks at the cuffs again, but they don’t give at all. He _aches_ , and it hurts and feels good at the same time. He wants this to end, and he wants it to continue. He wants her to come back, so he can convince her that the only ‘dessert’ he wants is her screaming his name as she orgasms.

She’s back soon enough, however, a bottle he can’t identify held in her hand. She’s up to something again, he can tell by the faint amused curl of her lips.

“If I’d known what you had planned, I would’ve made sure to take _you_ hostage,” he growls. Maybe that’s not such a bad idea, either. Turnabout is fair play, and the thought of having her like this, her slender wrists and maybe even ankles pinned to the bed while he takes his sweet, sweet time teasing and exploring every inch of her helpless body-

She opens the bottle and upends it over his chest, dribbling a thin line of what he then realizes is chocolate sauce across both his nipples, and he understands what she meant by _dessert_. “I take it _I’m_ on the menu, am I?” he comments wryly.

She winks at him, pouring more of the chocolate syrup down his breastbone, then leaving circular trails around his navel. “Why not? My two favourite things, chocolate and you.” She caps the bottle and leaves it on the night table, then gets up on the bed and straddles his legs.

Mary licks idly at his skin, obviously in no hurry. She laps at a nipple, cleaning the chocolate off of him. He closes his eyes, the better to savour each touch, still tugging reflexively at his bonds.

She’s slow and relentless, working her way from one side of his chest to the other, pausing to kiss him deeply, to share the chocolate flavour with him, and then she’s moving down his body, following the trail of sweetness further and further down.

He flinches a little at the movements of her tongue on his belly – he’s always been a little ticklish, and he’s so sensitive right now, the ache inside him intensifying with every little lap of her tongue.

When she’s got him licked clean, however, she reaches for the bottle again, and he has to bite back a moan while she dribbles more syrup the length of his aching cock.

His whole body tenses as she teases him, licking up the syrup somehow even more slowly than before, then sucking the length of him into her mouth as far as she can take him, to ensure she’s gotten every last drop of ‘dessert’. Swirling her tongue around and around, making sure every errant drop is gone. _Fuck_ , he thinks.

He wants more. Wants to have his dessert, too. “Your turn, honey,” he says. And this time, he puts some iron in his voice. Becomes, just for a moment, Corporal Winchester again. “Get your ass up here.”

She raises an eyebrow at the change in his tone, but she doesn’t argue. She crawls up the bed instead, kneeling next to his chest. “My turn for what?”

“You’re going to pour the chocolate on yourself. And then you’re going to…feed me. We’ll start at the top, and work our way down.”

“Are we?” she’s teasing him, asserting her power. Reminding him that she’s the one in charge.

“Yes. Move!” The last word is all Marine, all soldier. Barked at his lover in a tone as sharp as a whip’s lash (the corporal rearing his head for the moment), but he scarcely cares. He wants, he _burns_ , and she’s going to obey him, or he’ll break the headboard to get free, if he has to.

He’s startled her, but after a moment she smiles again, and he knows she understands the _need_ that drove him to speak to her like that. She raises the bottle, tilting her head back and dripping long lines of chocolate down each gorgeous breast. She leans over him, hanging that bounty right over his hungry mouth.

John eagerly licks a hanging droplet of chocolate from the underside of one breast, and then goes to town. She’s not the only one who loves chocolate, but he thinks this cheap bottled stuff is the best he’s ever had, flavoured as it is with her skin, her scent. He licks it all off, pausing to pay extra attention to each stiff little nipple, relishing the way her hand trembles slightly as it comes down to cup the back of his head, to hold him a little longer to each straining tip.

When the chocolate is all gone, it’s time for phase two of his mission. “Now, for some chocolate _pie_.” It’s crude and so unlike him, but he doesn’t care. It’s been too long since he’s been with a woman, and he’s been teased mercilessly all night. Delicacy of phrasing is _way_ beyond him. Luckily, Mary doesn’t seem to mind. Instead, she throws her head back and laughs warmly, then does exactly as he requested. She sits back and drizzles the chocolate syrup over the soft swollen skin between her thighs, then turns around like before, shifting backwards until she’s straddling his face. Offering herself.

It’s delicious. Surely the best dessert he’s ever had - Chocolate, and _cream_ , so to speak. Despite his need, he forces himself to go slow and gentle, no matter how badly he wants to shove his tongue inside her this time. If he pleases her, he’ll be more likely to get what he wants, he reasons. Heck, maybe he should even frustrate her. Bring her to the edge, then stop, and then demand that she demonstrate her ‘cowgirl’ skills. So to speak.

Careful strokes of his tongue, first licking and sucking chocolate from the curly little hairs, then careful nibbling at her folds before sliding his tongue between them, searching for more syrup. Long, broad motions of his tongue, alternating with controlled flicks at her clit. Cleaning her off, getting her worked up.

So worked up, in fact, that before long her own fingers appear in front of his face, and he watches in appreciation for a moment as she pushes them inside herself, stroking in and out. He knows what she wants, and before she can ask – or order him – he’s got his teeth around her clit, holding it firmly, letting his tongue dance across it over and over.

He almost forgets his plan, right up until she starts shuddering. That’s when he forces himself to pull away. He licks her sweetness from his lips, trying not to smirk in satisfaction at _her_ frustrated noises this time. “John,” she says, breathless. He can’t see her face, but he knows he’s taken her by surprise.

“Need you so much, Mary.” He’s startled when his words come out as a plea instead of a demand, but it doesn’t matter. Whatever will do the job. “Need to be inside you. And no, not inside your _mouth_.”

“OK, John,” she answers, and he nearly shouts in triumph when she moves to straddle his straining erection. She leans forward and kisses him gently. “I’m on the pill, by the way. Just in case you were wondering,” she says.

He hadn’t been – he just doesn’t have enough working brain cells left by this point – but he’s glad she brought it up. It means there’s nothing to distract him, not when she reaches down to finally guide him inside her, surrounding him with hot, tight muscle. He groans deeply, sweat beading all over his skin and dripping down the side of his face, and then thrusts up into her _hard._

She gasps, but then she raises herself up and pushes back down onto him, so hard he’s feeling as though the breath has been knocked out of him. “Mary,” he pants.

“John,” she answers, and she braces one delicate hand on the bed, lacing the fingers of her other hand through one of his bound ones.

John squeezes his eyes shut, the better to feel everything. Every brush and slide of skin against skin, the strong clenching of her inner muscles around him, the small gasps of pleasure escaping from Mary, from himself, the musky scent building up between them.

She moves faster and harder, _slamming_ herself down onto him now, and he wishes his hands were free so he could touch her, help push her over the edge. When she comes, he opens his eyes to watch her, watch his beautiful Mary as she gives in. Her head is tilted back, eyes closed and hair sweaty and falling around her shoulders, her muscles pulsing and rippling tightly around him. Her hand squeezes tightly around his, and she says his name a final time before she’s sagging bonelessly forward against his chest.

It’s enough for him. A quick few thrusts into her shuddering heat, and the floodgates open inside him, pleasure cresting and washing through every part of him.

They’re locked together still. Mary’s lying over him, hand still wrapped around his, strands of her hair scattered damply over his skin. But when she raises her head and smiles at him, there are tear-tracks on her cheeks.

The tables have turned. “I’m here, baby doll,” he assures her. “I’m not going anywhere. Never again.” That’s a promise. His military days are over.

She swipes the tears away with the side of her hand. “I know,” she says. “I love you, John Winchester.”

“And I love you, Mary.” He makes his decision. “Now, let me out of these cuffs.”

She smirks at him. “Why? I thought you were enjoying this.”

“Oh, I did. I _am_. But how can I go get you an engagement ring while you’ve got me chained to the bed? Didn’t think of that, did you, baby doll?”

She’s crying again, but he knows it’s happy tears.


End file.
